The price you pay for amazing light is your soul’s darkness when that light is gone. In a year or two or five when your grief quiets down you will hear your loved one’s voice and you will wonder how you were ever so blessed to have that light in your life. 
Author: jinnyhenson
A writer with the soul of an awkward middle school girl. I’m a writer, a reader, a comic, a wife, a mom and a follower of Christ.
Meridian, MS
In best selling author Wm. Paul Young’s 2007 book The Shack, God invites the main character, Mack, back to the place which he describes as “the vortex of his pain,” the spot where his kidnapped daughter Missy’s body is found. Mack eventually accepts the unconventional invitation which results in tremendous healing as each member of The Trinity work with him to gently reveal the unquenchable love The Father, despite Mack’s circumstances, has for Mack.
I first read The Shack in June of 2009 and heard Young speak in Shreveport in an event sponsored by local golf legend Hal Sutton. Sutton, who was deeply impacted by The Shack, wanted others to hear author in person. I was asked by my friends Jenny and Brian to attend. John, Maggie Lee and Jack were in North Carolina for Camp (Crestridge and Ridgecrest) while I stayed behind working.
Little could I have known the groundwork God was laying in my spiritual thought patterns as I devoured the story of a grieving parent learning to accept the loss of his daughter which he described as ‘The Great Sadness.’ How Young reconciled personal tragedy with God’s love was a beautiful, poetic picture which remained my mental screensaver as we sat with our daughter whose prayed-for miraculous recovery was simply not to be.
The FBC Shreveport bus left for youth camp in Georgia on July 12th a little after five a.m. A tire failed not long after 10 am just past Meridian, MS. The vehicle flipped and came to rest on Lauren and Maggie Lee. Brandon Ugarte was killed at the scene. An Alabama National Guard unit returning from training on up-righting overturned vehicles was traveling behind the bus, saw everything, and miraculously the Guardsmen lifted the wreckage off of our daughters.
To say that the town of Meridian, Mississippi was where our lives changed forever would be accurate. In the ensuing years since 2009 I have never had anything but sadness upon my hearing of the city’s name. Apparently it was time for all of that to change. My college roommate Betsy Sone Jones lives in Tifton, GA and always leads the Maggie Lee for Good charge this time of year. I love Tifton and wanted to be a part of their altruistic day of kindness which traditionally occurs on October 29th, Maggie Lee’s birthday.
Since Annie Bell Clark Elementary’s MLFG Day was not until mid-November I decided to go. Heading Eastward on 20 to get to Georgia would mean a trip through Meridian, MS. I had never in seven years driven past the accident site and it was time to face the music. I prayed and had others pray for me. I strangely felt like all would be well. As I approached Meridian I felt something tremendous in my spirit: the words, “God was with me the entire time.” It was an urging from Maggie Lee’s perspective.
The sentiment echoed again and again as I located the exact spot of the accident, slowed down, pulled over far into the grass and exited on the passenger side of my car. Down the embankment I walked and heard again, “God was with me the entire time.” Which I completely believe to be true. Meridian, as it turns out, is not scary after all. Perhaps I stopped to tell her so. Like so many unpredictable days in this unplanned journey, God’s ridiculous grace splashes upon me and simply makes my days doable when there is no reason at all why they should be.
Khaki Fair DO Care
STILL ON A KHAKI HIGH
Over 200 North West Louisiana K-8th graders received school uniforms, a fresh haircut, string pack, book, shiny nails and community services for free at MLC’s Khaki Fair August 4th.
On FI-YA
Since the air conditioning units failed the day before, we kicked it box fan and body odor style this year. We may have all sweat like a Ryan Lochte at the Rio de Janiero Police Station but the little people who brought their best manners and grateful parents made me wish I had a billion dollars to buy everyone in the world a uniform.
THIS IS HOW WE ROLL
Clients entered the registration / air conditioned chapel and were seated in rows of ten (the system developed for The Highland Blessing Dinner on Thursday Nights.) After watching the Baby Ella video highlighting the importance of loving words to infant brain development, folks walked to the toasty gym and their children received a uniform in a nifty string pack. This year, The Doctor’s Travis Stork donated those packs to our families.
LEAN ON ME
After uniforms, just to the left of shorty-pants alley was resource row: our blessed community partners including SPAR, Early Steps, Head Start, Early Head Start, Step Forward and Ocean Dental. The back wall was lined with a book give away sponsored by Church for The Highlands which led to a reading wonderland. The Bossier Library showed up hot but happy as kids crashed on the air couches surrounding the magical Tee Pee of Happiness.
YOU’RE SO FANCY
The final leg of Khaki Fair was the favorite of most of our kids. Two stylists and a barber cranked out some fun and fabulous back to school hair. For our girls who did not opt for a trim there was the Super Nail A Team who polished with precision. Super Nail. Upon exit the little people received a drink and a snack and one more admonition to have a great year.
THE REST OF THE STORY
Khaki Fest / Fair is typically around August 2nd, the anniversary of Maggie Lee’s passing. The busier my hands are the happier my heart is at the beginning of this month. The real truth is that all of the Maggie Lee for Good activities for me are nothing short of a Heavenly collaboration. I am inspired by who she was and still is even if she does have a different address.
Seven Year Itch
Seven years ago today my family gathered around Maggie Lee’s bedside and John commended her spirit to The Lord. Test results concluded beyond a doubt that she was already gone. The beautiful, creative brain which produced hilarity and song lyrics showed no activity. We said our initial farewells, signed organ-donor consents and updated thousands of faithful petitioners that we had not received our miracle.
I remember so vividly our seventh anniversary in Dallas in 2001. The card John gave me as we ate dinner in some Irish restaurant on Knox Street had the words, “The only thing I’m itching for is more of you.” I know, I got a keeper. At that point seven years seemed a lifetime.
Reflecting on those building years brings an ooze of blissful gratitutude; not only because we were all together but because those training-wheel trials of parental cancer readied our marriage and souls for the biggie which was to come. Silly me, I thought those were the biggies. Without such warm-up, though, I could have easily now be living out of a shopping cart with five dogs. Rather than four.
Earthly life as the book of James reminds us is a vapor. A mist quickly fading. A pan flash of 12 or 82 years. All comparatively nano-seconds to an eternal God. But even if it’s just a vapor, I long to have my vapor matter. If we are mere vapes then may we vape well. I only want the power of God’s grace to make its way through me. I long for the everlasting to abide and energize me because time is indeed so short.
The thought hit me as I taxied Jack and three of his squad home from Six Flags last week. The weather was stormy and there was lots of mist to drive through. Maybe it was the amalgamation of rain, perspiration and netflix in that cab but I swear it was a holy insight. I know life is short and I want my time to matter. I have found the bird’s eye view of connecting those in need to those who have a little extra to give intoxicating. Like setting up two friends who desperately need one another.
To that end Khaki Fair will happen tomorrow. Maggie Lee’s Closet along with a slew of community partners will provide uniforms, education and books to some of NW Louisiana’s most vulnerable little people. Hair dressers and barbers on hand to spiff them up for their first day of school.
Step Forward, a group which is combating root causes of our cities’ poverty has brought to our attention the 30 million word gap issue. Essentially kids who succeed in our schools have been exposed to 30 million more words by age three than those who will fail.
Get this: the brain actually feeds on words as our kids bodies feed on food it turns out. The interaction between parent / guardian and child sets up kids for success or failure. Now that we’re aware of this, we can bring this information to parents seeking uniforms to equip them to change their lives while meeting the emergent need of clothing for those in crisis.
Maggie Lee’s brain and soul I shall never be able to duplicate or describe but I am inspired by her memorable spirit to nurture these beautiful kids in some small way. And in uniform form help them to know that immense, amazing love I have by God’s grace discovered. Which does not by the way make me a good detective. It’s everywhere.
Vape well.
Three Easy Steps to The Perfect Marriage…Buahhhh
Today John and I have been married 22 years. Our marriage is so old that it could’ve ordered a beer last year. That’s old. The great truth I have learned is that the longer you are married the less you expect of your spouse and the more you expect of yourself. I have learned much from this opposite I married.
In the infancy of our dating period, John cooked dinner for me. In his deadpan humor he teased me about my utensil usage. Manners being of paramount importance to me, I was devastated. I wept on the phone to my Mom and Dad that night. “Mother, he criticized me for not using a knife on his chicken. It was a free-standing chicken breast. Very. Tender. He. Thinks. I do. Not. Have. Mannnnnerss.”
I could literally hear my Southern Mother’s neck hair stand up through the phone. “It is completely acceptable to use a fork to cut ANY poultry which is not on the bone.” Miss Manners replied. My Father had more pedestrian words to offer, “Reel him into the boat and if you get him in there and don’t want him, you can always throw him back” My bruised feelings over his imagined criticism quickly faded but my romantic feelings did not.
I couldn’t throw him back. I was smitten from the first time I saw him walk across campus with his monogrammed L.L.Bean book bag. He had me at the monogrammed L.L.Bean book bag. In a sea of Divinity students who not only exegeted Hebrew passages about Noah’s flood but appeared by their pant length to be anticipating a second one, John was a stand-out.
We actually first met six years prior to seminary when my high school choir sang at his home church in Tyler. They were one of our “concert” stops. Such the Baptist love story. I briefly dated one of his high school buddies and after college in Seminary this guy kept telling me that I looked familiar. He connected the dots before I did and we have been together ever since.
The first time John came home to Houston, my Father greeted him with a huge bear hug. The look on John’s face was reminiscent of the picture of Lee Harvey Oswald being shot by Jack Ruby. He comes from a long line of hand-shakers which is totally great, just different from that which I was accustomed. I have come to realize that life is not done your way or the wrong way. These are the things you do not necessarily know going in.
Tonight James Taylor is in town. He was so sweet to schedule this date for us. I have loved his music since college. His is the first song on the first mix tape I ever made for John and I labored to his greatest hits with both of my children. James is boss. So we will celebrate this love God has graciously given and the love we have chosen to stick with in good times and bad. His book bag and dark hair are gone but he will forever have me: heart and soul.
Ain’t Every Year a Pinterest Year
I adore wrapping presents. My first paid job where I had to give my social security number was in the Neiman’s Christmas wrapping sweatshop in the underbelly of the Houston Galleria store. I was a clueless High School Sophomore who had an in with the Manager of Men’s Suits: he was my Dad. That was the same year that the wife of a prominent Houston attorney accidentally received the holiday gift intended for the man’s girlfriend, complete with hand-written note. Oops.
It was there among the 100-pound rolls of gorgeous paper and teeny gold elastic ribbon that I learned the art of gift-wrapping. My Father actually took the time to teach me how to press each corner impeccably and how to fold the edges with double-sided tape. He cared about the details almost a millionth as much as he did me. He wanted me to do well and eventually be moved onto the floor where he could see me more. All in due time.
I have carried the essence of my Neiman’s parcel-perfecting education with me into the Big Lots reality of my life. With the right box and bow anything is possible. Some years for Father’s Day I do the memory of Pop’s standards proud with a coordinated theme or just adorable World Market wrappings. For lack of time and inspiration, this year it was a recycled Bodacious Barbeque to-go bag. As the guys were loading me up Friday Night I thought “that bag is perfect for the present I’ve yet to buy John for Father’s Day in 48 hours.”
(In my defense my car Evangeline was in the shop all week and I was totally off my game. Did y’all know July 4th is like 2 weeks away. What’s UP?)
The wrapping skills my Father taught me were far overshadowed, however, by another lesson: “It’s the thought that counts.” It is. Truly. Whether we’ve had just enough money for me to cook John’s favorite meal or been wealthy enough to buy World Market wrapping paper (and even an actual present!) the thought has been there. How could it not be? John is my closer. You know when that selfish person shoves crap in a closet to the point where the door won’t shut and walks innocently away? That is me. John is the patient soul who sorts through the numerous items to make things close properly.
John is the steady hand to my Chicken-Little anxieties and a human reminder that I should Carpe my Diem. He is good to the core and he loves my Mom. As a Father he has always been loving, faithful and fair. He led our kids to Christ and prayed with them. He has spent his life in ministry extending God’s love to those passed-over. The truth is simple: God’s love leaves no one out. Neither does John. He does not think others should be required to pay for the grace he was freely given. Crazy concept, right?
So this year I will celebrate the guy with a barbecue bag. And a few thoughts on why I’m crazy blessed. I could never explain it all and he would recoil if I tried. I do offer my humble admiration to my polar opposite and my faithful closer of closets.
So God Made a Farmer
Maybe it was Paul Harvey’s “So God Made A Farmer.” which impacted my child. Or, perhaps it was weekends at the family farm in Troup, TX where his father rode horses as a child or maybe it was the Little People Playhouse Barn at his Grandmom’s house which planted the agricultural seed in Jack. At any rate, he loves the dirt. He told me proudly the other day, “You need a farmer three times a day” He is right.
This Summer Jack is working on Bundrick Farms as a hired hand. 40 hours a week. Just a week on the soybean farm and his neck is literally beet red. His nails are dirty and his Wranglers walk in on their own from his F-250 but he loves being outside. His hard physical work means that my cooking which takes a lax turn in the Summer has to be on point. I have to feed the farmer.
There is a holy food-provider calling for a farmer as well as a parent. Whether you are a Mom nursing a baby, a Dad nursing a sick child or even nursing a cold yourself, the little people look to you for nourishment. Even if your kids bring their kids home to visit. Inevitably I get a text requesting a list of breakfast items whenever I go home to my 75-year-old Mom’s home.
I think men may actually be better equipped for the family chef role because they don’t mount their self-esteem on the teeny-tiny whimsical palette of a four-year-old. It’s almost as if men don’t obsess about the child’s ever-changing preferences of Oreo Thins over Nutter Butter bites or something. They do not envision their child on a therapist’s couch as a result of buying orange juice with pulp. Men are amazing that way. At least mine is.
Perhaps my brain is bogged down with minutiae like which Apple Juice brand gives my child gas or the best way to time a toaster strudel icing-packet defrosting to coincide with the strudel being perfectly brown. Like our family data plan which is always ahem being used to capacity, my mind routinely hovers at the 96% used storage. Because of the Sumatra / French Roast gymnastics I work through while staring at the Keurig aisle.
My cart looks embarrasingly conflicted: Atkins bars for lo-carb John, fresh fruit, Greek yogurt for me (John Stamos brand because…ah…John Stamos) raisins and then whoa-look out: Mountain Dew, Swiss Cake Rolls, whole milk, pizza rolls, bar-be-que and cheese. I have to pack a farmer’s lunch for Jack, a balanced dinner for all of us to eat together and consider canine teeth, a hound doberman’s ear infections and treats to bribe a spastic black lab.
I finally gave up making the dog food from scratch for the little girls when I went back to work last Summer. The Chihuahuas have brittle teeth it turns out so I was actually making their soft food. It was cheaper that way. Now that I splurge on the Fresh Pet refrigerated log of dog food, every bagger in every Brookshire’s grocery store now looks at me like I am NUTS.
“Fragile teeth,” I lamely try to explain.
“Do you COOK this?” they ask. And I mumble some throw-away line like “No, the dogs do,” when what I really want to say is “There’s a $5 in it for you if you just quietly put the food in the bags, follow me out with them and squeeze them into my micro-car which I will have to rearrange my trunk crap for you to do so.”
When I arrive home and lug my carefully-selected bags of food into my home all I can think is “Thank you, God, for this food.The food means that there are people both furry and not as furry that I get to feed. I have money with which to buy food. I have people in my home who eat that I get to do life with. And even if I occasionally strike out with the off-brand meatball with something magically crunchy inside, we are here together to eat, pray, love and laugh.
After we lost Maggie Lee, going to the grocery store was a draining experience. I had all of her preferences stored in my brain and no longer any need for them. In the nearly seven years since, the sharp reality of incompleteness has softened as I consciously stare at the tremendous blessings I have left. I know what I have left is greater than what I have lost. I will always choose to look through that lens.
Good luck to all of us this Summer as we rise to the holy calling of feeding our families. Whether we have a fend-for-yourself policy, have to step up our game, are eating home-grown tomatoes or Captain Crunch for dinner. God made a farmer. Aren’t we glad?
Grace Yourself
It was Disney World, so what could possibly go wrong? I had visions of our youth group at the resort hotel with kids from all over the country uniting for a weekend of challenging speakers and park fun. What’s not to love? Since John went to New York with Maggie Lee on her school’s trip in October, I got to be a youth sponsor on the Faith in 3D Conference that MLK weekend.
Because our destination was sunny Florida, I only packed light jackets for us. Despite the fact that it was winter, ShreveVegas was a balmy 80 with 1300% humidity. The flight from Dallas to Orlando was routine enough but as I deplaned I could not help but feel like something was going down. That would be the temperature. Turns out it was not only a small world but a cold world after all. With suitcases collected, the actual adults reached into their bags for heavier jackets, while my mother guilt reached an all new high. It rose in my spirit quicker than Tinkerbell’s concluding firework shot across the Midnight Magic Kingdom sky.
We arrived at the Disney Resort and thankfully they had a gift shop full of Jackets and hats. I reached into my wallet for my debit card and to my horror realized that it was gone! What? Was it stolen? Left at the DFW Airport Cinnabon? Then it dawned on me: I organized my purse. The ticker tape receipt parade had gotten terrifically out of control so I organized then downsized to a smaller purse for travel. Alas, amid receipts of Hobby Lobby, Kroger, Starbucks and Target (the big four) my debit card must have been left. (passive voice) Except for the $100.00 cash that John gave me for incidentals, I had no access to money.
This was such a victoriously brilliant Mom moment for me. I explained to ML that I was a moron and that we had the $100.00 to live on for the next few days. Which is easy because food at Disney is so totally cheap. She did have her allowance saved but as the Mother I was supposed to be ready for any catastrophe not the source of the catastrophe. Even if it was a First-World one. I did bite the bullet and spend a third of our sustenance on a brown track jacket for my mini-me.
The Conference was great. There were engaging speakers, lots of emphasis on being the hands and feet of Christ in the world and fun break-out sessions. Maggie Lee met a new friend, Jessie, from North Carolina and exchanged email addresses. The weekend struck a great balance between spiritual challenge and time with The Mouse. My guilt was beginning to simmah down when I committed the fairy god mother of all blunders in my hasty attempt to help.
With only three hours left in the park, our small group gathered to discuss which rides we did not want to miss. The group determined that we would do one of the biggies: Space Mountain. But we would need our conference park tickets to get fast passes. Eager to help, I offered to run to get the passes for all of us while everyone made the most of their time left. I collected the passes and ran like the wind, Bullseye. Like Cinderella at 11:59 I was hauling.
Breathlessly I arrived at the fast-pass machine, fed all twelve of our passes and collected the golden tickets. I sprinted back to the pre-appointed spot and handed back the park tickets and fast passes. All eleven? What? I searched frantically in my micro-purse, sweeping the pockets both inside and out. Nothing. I checked my pockets repeatedly with the vigor of a Viking rowing. Nothing. I began hyperventilating, so ashamed that I had caused trouble when all I wanted to do was help.
The youth whose ticket I lost was sweet and her mom took their credentials to the info booth to get a replacement which I offered to do. Not sure why they didn’t take me up on that one. So the we all dispersed and I followed Sarah and Maggie Lee to be the purse holder. They boarded the ride and I called John. The tears flowed as I explained how badly I felt for my failure. I will never forget his his advice comprised of just two little words: “Grace yourself.”
“It is really ok honey, it is not that big a deal.” He soothed.
I protested, “But they all trusted ME with their Disney Tickets and now Kelley has to spend her time replacing a ticket that I lost. It’s nowhere. It must be on the ground, near the turkey leg stand or blowing around the parade. I’m so ashamed.”
Sensing my slight overreaction, he once more admonished me, “Grace yourself. It will all work out.” And it did. It was not the end of the world that I so meladramatically assumed it would be. I had not ruined anyone’s weekend like I was fearful I had done. Even now as I consider my shortcomings as a Mom, I relive the Fast Pass Debaucle of 2009.
I could have been more organized. When the kids started forging permission slips rather than taking the chance on my losing it, this was obvious. I could have valued the beauty of a completed load of laundry. I could have assembled the $3,000 worth of scrapbook supplies into actual scrapbooks rather than cramming the photos into random containers. I could have taken that Khan Academy trigonomatry course to help more with the kids’ 5th grade Math.
I mean why be The Pinterest Mom when you can be the Pinterest fail Mom? Way more of you reading this know the smell of Febreeze is no match for Taco Bell nacho cheese and know the panic of seeing four teenage boys bounding toward your home before you’ve showered. The struggle is real. And so are we. And in real life with the real constrains of time, energy and mental bandwidth something will occasionally fall through the cracks. At those moments, it behooves you to grace yourself.
Happy Mother’s Day,
Jin
Why Me?
Repost
Why Me?
This time of year I am dogged by this question which refuses to go away. Perhaps you are plagued by similar feelings as you glance at the lives others are living this season.
The holidays lead us to inevitably compare our lot against that of others. Comparison leads me to look to Heaven with those profound two emotion-charged words. The sentiment birthing them: “so what did I do to deserve this?”
I am certain that I did precious little to warrant this life I lead. I had virtually no hand in determining who my parents would be. That they would unconditionally loved each other and me was an unwarranted gift.
My Father was sweet, kind and hilarious. My Mom was and is honest, loving and affirming. Neither one of them descended from such functional homes. The odds were stacked against me growing up with invincible optimism, confidence and joy.
Despite my gender, I was not abandoned. I was not tasked with fetching water which would preclude my receiving an education. I was not married off or sold into slavery at 13 as is the horrific reality of others.
I graduated from High School and thankfully was accepted to a university for which my parents shouldered the total expense. My parents persevered through my academic mediocrity, held their breath and prayed me through to graduation. Then instead of admonishing me to quit while I was ahead, they even encouraged me to attend seminary.
I married a good person, something you cannot truly know until months or years after the cake is cut. He is my polar opposite as anyone who is even a passing acquaintance of ours will recognize. I was engaged to someone else as was he and we both called things off two years before dating in seminary.
We had no trouble conceiving unlike so many thousands of couples do. Our daughter was born with no defects.
Nearly two years later our son was born in perfect health. Although the missionary salary John received would have qualified us for government cheese, we eventually paid off the medical bills for both of our children.
I have been blessed with the rarest of friends and family, those whom I always hunched would go to the mat for me. I hate that I know how unshakable God’s love through them is.
Unlike so many I have met whose support system evaporated in the darkness, mine pressed in closer to remind me of the light inside when I felt it was forever extinguished. Whispering gently and patiently that I was beloved of God even if my life was indeed upended.
I am still a wife and a mother, two of my most favorite roles. I sit here this Saturday listening to Jack play some crazy video game and my John work the New York Times Crossword Puzzle. I am not cold, hungry, penniless, thirsty or desperate for peace. And I am lead to ask, “Why me?”
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When Ducks Bentley Imprints on You
Jack’s Spring Break happened this week. While my men worked at the family farm in Troup, TX, I kicked some dust up of my own. I cleaned my 17 year old son’s room. The debris from the cleanup warranted machinery which, instead of returning to the garage, I crammed atop the dryer and shut the door. When John returned home and began his laundry I grabbed my crap pile of tools to return to their rightful spot.
Hands full, I hipped-open the door knob (they don’t lie) and was stunned by the sight of our Lab chasing a baby wood duck. With his teeth. I screamed bloody murder and in my nightgown and morning hair a-blazing I slung my load, snatched the baby and nestled it protectively to my chest. John came running and as usual said something about the neighbors calling the Police about domestic abuse, blah, blah, blah.
Since I’ve seen that Dawn commercial like a 1,000 times I consider myself a waterfowl-recovery expert. John told me to Google proper procedure for duckling care and agencies who would help so I immediately introduced my chihuahuas to the orphan because that was way more fun. Realizing that my duck-whispering dreams were temporarily coming true he gave me my moment and did the due diligence himself.
John looked outside and thought he saw the mother in search of her baby. We kenneled the dogs and let Ducks Bentley out back to see if she would come get him. No sign. He wandered to the front yard with that heartbreakingly displaced cry and no luck. He hopped down the street and I absolutely could not just leave the hatchling to chance with all of the cats and dogs on our street. I continued to walk Eastward but lost sight of him. Eyes closed, I honed in on a faint cheep and kept walking until I saw him.
My friend knew a Veterinarian who rehabs ducklings for the state and said he would take care of it. My heart was satisfied that I had done my duty as a foster parent and he was in good hands. That afternoon when I called to see how the re-homing was going, I got some alarming news. The Vet could not take Ducks and so my friend set him free on a nearby lake. He checked on him later that day and said he looked ok but that if he did not find ducks of his own kind soon that he wouldn’t make it for long. Oh no.
I dropped the phone and headed for the Elks Lodge Lake a few blocks from our home where Ducks had been released. Not letting the “Members and Friends of Members” sign dissuade me, I blazed up the entrance. To my shock this was no pond. It was a LAKE lake. My heart sank. I walked down the boat ramp and called for Ducks Bentley. Looking high and low I spent 15 minutes calling for him. No duckling anywhere.
Walking along the wooded shore I prayed and came to peace with the fact that if I could not find Ducks Bentley that God was just going to have to look out for him. I am a hopelessly optimistic realist I guess. I returned to my car and drove further down the shore. I did not see another entry point for the lake and a foreboding chain link fence blocked entry to the rest of the lakefront. I did see a jon boat but I didn’t want to push my luck with trespassing and theft. One misdemeanor at a time is my mantra.
In the distance I spotted a pier and parked my car. Getting out, I sloshed through the saturated grass toward the clearing, calling for Ducks Bentley all the while. I scanned the watery horizon for a bright yellow and black wood duckling yet saw nothing. As I called, the mature ducks swam farther and farther away from me. It dawned on me what an absurd a needle-in-a-haystack endeavor this was and I did not even know why I felt so compelled to find him. Looking for the positives, I reminded myself that at least I had tried.
I spent 10 more minutes alternately calling and listening near the pier. I thought I heard a faint cheeping amid the throngs of other dusky nature sounds. The cheep was weak yet growing stronger. I set my glance in the cry’s direction but I saw nothing. West to East, North to South I searched for what my ears believed to be the echo of my orphaned acquaintance. There was no duckling in sight but the ever-amplified cheep fueled my hope that there would be.
Then like a winning lottery ticket I saw a tiny yellow and black speck round a bend across the water and paddle straight for me. This was crazy! I got louder and louder and screamed “Grammy’s here for you! Come to Grammy!” Grammy is my self-designation for all the creatures of the world form dogs to fish and now expanding to the world of waterfowl. Ducks paddled closer and closer and my shock increased.
Maneuvering awkwardly through the lily pads, up came my foster-duckling. He ambled on shore shaking beads of water off and I stood still as not to scare him. He promptly sat on my foot and lifting him, I began to cry at the completely bizarre chain of events. I texted John a picture of my ugly-cry reunion and understandably John was ecstatic over my good fortune. “So, what are you going to do with him?” He asked. I answered that I would find an agency to raise him with his species but we have to stabilize the little guy at least for the night.
I opened the car and sat Ducks Bentley on my lap. He hiked up into my elbow pit and rested, exhausted form his wearisome day. I got an aquarium, a light, grass and meal worms for Ducks which I floated atop the water to teach him to hunt. John engineered the heat lamp and we arranged his habitat carefully. I set a clock next to the duckling to simulate a mother’s heartbeat and turned on the radio for some white noise. The song that came on? “The Dance,” by Garth Brooks. And, no, I did not dance with Ducks.
Today I am looking for a wood duck habitat / agency to take him and reunite him with his people. He needs to learn how to be a duck and I am of no help there. He is precious but he deserves to live happy and free. While I have loved living out a Modern Family episode, Ducks belongs somewhere else. Still, I will never forget this teeny tiny little Ducks Bentley who swam a lake to get back to me.
jinnyhenson.net 