Goodbye, my Birdie-girl

On Saturday, we had to put our family dog, Birdie, down. My mom and I waited in the vet's office as my step-dad waited in the car and my sister waited in Guatemala. We held her as the medicine made her fall asleep and watched as she took her last breath after 16 years of taking care of us, her family.

I am devastated.

I can't help it. I know that she's "just a dog," after all. She's an animal, not a human, and she doesn't have a soul. But ... well, frankly, typing "she doesn't have soul" just kind of broke my heart a little. If ever a dog had a soul, it would be Birdie.
We got Birdie when I was 10 years old. My dad and mom dropped my sister and me off at an aunt's house, saying that if they found a dog they liked and was within their price range, we'd have one by that evening. Hours later, they came back empty-handed. We were crestfallen ... until we saw a tiny head peaking out of my dad's coat pocket. She was the cutest little puppy you have ever seen. I still remember taking turns with Tabby, holding her in our coats in the car on the way home. She was a miniature pinscher, the runt of the litter (this caused my dad to get a good price, I'm told), making her smaller than most of her breed.
We named her Birdie because my dad was very into golf, and a "birdie" is one under par. Since she was so tiny, it made sense to us. It confused other people, though, who thought it was weird to give an animal the name of another animal. Birdie didn't seem to mind, though, so I guess we did okay.

Birdie always seemed to know when she was needed. I found that I couldn't start crying in the house without her finding me. If she caught me, she would jump onto my lap and look at me with her big, brown puppy-dog eyes as if to say, "It's all right." And then she'd lick the tears right off my face. My mom always said this was because she liked the salt water, but I knew better. Everyone knows animals can sense emotions, and Birdie not only sensed them, but wanted to help. And so she did. I sometimes wonder what it was like for other people to go through adolesence without a creature nearby, ready to comfort and love you at a moment's notice.

We grew up together, Birdie, Tabby and I. We helped raise her, and she helped raise us. Our lives are so intermiingled with her that we couldn't cut her out without cutting out a part of ourselves. This seems ridiculous, when you realize she was just a dog. A family pet. But pets have a way of sneaking into our hearts. And the truth is, Birdie burrowed her way into my sister's and my hearts about 1.5 seconds after she poked her little head out of my dad's coat pocket. From then until today, she's been walking through life with us.

She loved to be carried around. She loved to burrow under her blankets. She loved to sleep inside your sweatshirt while you were still wearing it. And she loved people food. In fact, she demanded it. She was a terrible begger: loud and obnoxious. We didn't really have a peaceful meal for about 10 years.

She once ate an entire Hershey's bar and another time a whole bag of Hershey's minis, yet she lived to be 16 years old.

She loved walks so much that we had to start spelling out the word when we were around her.

And in her eyes, she was the most ferocious creature that ever lived. I watched her face dogs literally 10 times her size without fear. Just the opposite, in fact: she treated them all as threats which needed to be extinguished. Fortunately for them, she wasn't actually physically capable of doing so.

She walked with us through the minefield of divorce. She was our sister-in-arms. She was my baby. And ever since I was 10 years old, she has always been ecstatic to see me (or my sister) walk through the door, no matter how long it has been since we have been home.

So even though it is true that to everyone else in the world, she's just a dog, I have to mourn her like she was my comforter, confidant and friend for 16 years. I have to mourn her like she was one of the few on the inside of my family before my parents got divorced and after. I have to mourn her like there were times in my life when it felt like she was the only one who cared about me at all. I have to mourn her like she was a creature I loved and who also loved me.

"A really companionable and indispensable dog is an accident of nature. You can't get it by breeding for it, and you can't buy it with money. It just happens along." -- E.B. White

Ayn Rand, Michelangelo and general revelation

There is a part in atheist writer and founder of objectivism Ayn Rand’s book “The Fountainhead,” where the main character, Howard Roark, looks at a skyscraper, marveling. He thinks to himself not how amazing the skyscraper itself is, but how amazing is the mind that created it. He reminds himself how things like a skyscraper, or a city or any other astonishing thing made by humans, is nothing but a monument to the greatness of mankind, specifically of the greatness of that man or woman who made it.

In “Atlas Shrugged,” Ayn’s own monument, the main character, Dagney Taggert, finds a part of a motor in an old abandoned factory. She recognizes that the engineering of this motor is such that it could change the course of the advancement of …things that use motors… which is of course, just about every manmade thing that moves. When she sees this piece of a motor, she sees the possibilities and what it means for the advancement of humanity and of her company. But more importantly, she sees behind this motor a brilliant mind. She sees the motor, and she knows that somewhere out in the world, there is a person who made that motor, and she sets out to find him. In fact, she spends half the book looking for him desperately. She begins to think of the maker of that motor as her salvation, and when she finds him, he’s everything she hoped for and more.

And it’s true, what Howard Roark said. Or what Ayn Rand said through the character of Howard Roark. When we see a creation, we see how amazing its creator is. When we were in Florence, Kate and I saw Michelangelo’s “David.” It was possibly the most extraordinary piece of art I have ever seen. You think to yourself, “I’m just going to see a statue. What’s the big deal?” But then you see it, and it takes your breath away. We stared at it for a half an hour. We pointed to different parts and said in loud whispers things like, “Look at the palm of his hand!” and “Look at his toenails!” and “The veins! Look at the veins in his forearms!” and “His eyes!” and mostly “Michelangelo was amazing.” We were mesmerized by the beauty, but we were immediately marveling at the brilliance and talent of Michelangelo. It was him we saw, his mind and ability we gazed upon when we stared into the eyes of the David.

In my college theology class, we learned about two ways in which God speaks to us: through general revelation and special revelation. Special revelation is God using words for the most part to speak directly to you individually (e.g. The Bible, Moses and the burning bush, the Holy Spirit speaking to us each day, etc.). General revelation is God revealing himself to all of humanity. There is only one example of this that I remember: Nature, the universe … all of creation.

At the time, I remember thinking this seemed a little unfair. I mean, the trees and flowers and mountains hardly explained about Jesus and repenting of our sins and so forth. I mean, how were the Native Americans supposed to get that from just the breeze and the sun and the lake? But the more that I think of it now, the more I wonder if God made a place for people like the Native Americans in pre-settled America. Because they looked around themselves and realized what every logical human being decides when he or she sees a creation: that it was created. They saw the animals and the plants and the rivers and rocks and themselves, and they said, “A great being, greater than ourselves, made all of this. And he/she/it is deserving of our worship.”

In fact, I can’t think of any people group, Native American, aboriginal or otherwise, who encountered the world in which they lived and didn’t decide that someone must have created it. And although they, like their European counterparts, didn’t have all of the scientific advances we have today, they were far from stupid. If they had been walking in the woods and found an arrow, they would have known someone else had been there and someone had made that arrow. And they looked at the trees and rocks the animals and said the same thing.

If you decided to become an explorer, and you got in a boat and traveled to an island which had not yet been discovered, and you got out of the boat and whipped out your machete and started making your way through this glorious new country, what would happen if you suddenly came upon a broken-down old truck? What would you say to yourself? Would you say, “Wow! Nature is amazing! Out of this untouched island a truck has grown! Perhaps there was once a piece of metal that has, over the millennia, evolved into this truck!”

Of course not. That would be ridiculous. Just because you thought the island had never been discovered, and just because you couldn’t see anyone and hadn’t and maybe never would see anyone on that island, the truck itself is proof that someone else has been there.

And I suppose all of these things, in a meandering sort of way, explain why I can’t understand how anyone can NOT believe in God. Even if you don’t believe in Jesus or the God of Jacob, Isaac and Abraham, how can anyone not see the world, see the astonishing brilliance and resourcefulness and creativity of human beings, and not see a creator?

Macroevolution just doesn’t make sense. This world is too complicated, too … creative. There’s too much about its parts that are dependent on each other. From the ozone to ecosystems to the way that in order for one part of my body to function, a completely different part must function as well, and in order for that one to function, the first must also be functioning. Science tells me that things don’t generally become more complicated. Science tells me that macroevolution does not make rational, logical sense. Science tells me that it takes more faith to believe in evolution than it does to believe in a creator. A straight line is the fastest way to get from point A to point B, and sometimes the most obvious explanation is the right one.

Roman Holiday

So it appears as though I am perhaps the absolute worst blogger in the world. I wrote two posts and then fell off the face of the Earth.

Well, I am alive, and I just got back from a week-long trip to Italy with my friend, Kate. I was thinking I should post about it, but it was tough to come up with an angle. I mean, what can I say that hasn't already been said? Probably nothing. So I guess I'll just go ahead and say about Italy what many before me have probably said: It's got to be one of the greatest places on Earth.

Granted, I have not even come close to visiting all the places on Earth, and I'm sure I never will, but Italy should be No. 1, or at least in your top 5, on your list of countries to visit.

First of all, there's just the oldness of everything. This, of course, is something you can find in most (if not all) European countries, and of course even North America has been here since long before it became the U.S. and Canada and so on. But my point is that when I visit places in the U.S., none of the buildings or writings or art or anything is older than 200 years. In Italy, you'll find buildings that are 2000 years old. I saw churches that are older than our country. Kate and I had coffee (or in my case, hot chocolate) in a cafe in Venice where Casonova and Charles Dickens and other famous people had their espresso. We walked where gladiators walked, where Michaelangelo painted, where Peter was crucified. In the midst of the bustling city of downtown Rome, standing beside metropolitan buildings, you'll find the Pantheon and the Colosseum and the ruins of an ancient civilization which once ran the world. It's downright weird. But awesome.

And then there's the beauty of everything. Venice has got to be one of the most beautiful cities on Earth. I mean, water is everywhere, curvy gondolas float down the rivers. You can't go ten feet without running into another bridge. Even when the realities of daily life make themselves known, like a boat full of trash ... their version of a garbage truck ... floats down the river, still the city is beautiful. The buildings are old and lovely. The roads are twisty and confusing, which somehow only adds to the charm. Kate and I got lost at least 3 times, if not more. We spent half of Thursday lost. But the whole place was so lovely, it didn't even matter. And that was just Venice. Then there's the buildings ... the churches! St. Marc's Basilica in Venice. The Duomo in Florence. St. Peter's Basilica in the Vatican. The church really knew how to deck out its buildings back in the day. And make them last, too! The entire inside of St. Marc's Basilica is covered in gold murals. The entire inside.

And of course, that brings us to the art. You can't miss it, even if you try. (Although, why would you?) In the churches, in the squares, on the walls. Everywhere is art. Michaelangelo alone filled the country up. The Sistine Chapel is just as beautiful as you think it is. And his sculpture of David is much more beautiful than you expect. It's probably the most magnificent work of art that I have ever seen. You can't throw a rock in this country without hitting some Renaissance art. And then add on top of that the ancient murals and frescoes of the Romans and the paintings that local artists sell on the streets, and everything in between, and you've got a country spilling over with art. We barely scraped the surface.

And don't forget the culinary arts. The food is, of course, delicious. I had the best lasagna on the face of this planet at a restaurant in Venice. Italian food has always offered some of my favorite dishes, and I was not disappointed. Though I will admit that we didn't seem to find the amazing pizza that people rave about, I know that it's there. I'm determined to find it on my next trip.

And there will be a next trip. Because I have saved the best part for last. If all of the above was not enough, there's more: the gelato. I cannot explain the glory that is gelato. The locals sometimes call it ice cream. But it is not ice cream. It's so much more, so much better, than ice cream. So many flavors! From chocolate to raspberry to yogurt to hazelnut to pineapple to a million other things. My favorites were cinnamon and pear (not together!). This is a frozen treat that tastes exactly like the flavor it claims. It's absolutely. to. die. for.

For the gelato alone, I know I have to go back. I can't live my life never having Italian gelato again. Luckily, there are so many things to see that we missed and so many things to see again!

"The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only one page." – St. Augustine

Visiting the tax lady

I'm a pretty do-it-yourself kind of gal. I was raised to be strong and independent and, more importantly, frugal (i.e. Dutch), so I have come to the conclusion that if I can make it/fix it/do it myself, why pay to buy it/hire someone to do it for me?

Especially when part of the title of said thing-that-needs-doing it "EZ."

So now that tax time is rolling around, and because I'm going to Italy in a little more than a month, I thought it was high time I fill out the good ol' 1040EZ and get what's owed to my by that great body we call the federal government.

Except for one little problem, my plan would have gone off without a hitch: after following the directions carefully and completing the form, it stated that I owed the government $76.23!

What?!

Obviously, I have never run into such a conundrum before, so I consulted my father, who suggested I take it to H&R Block. They will do your 1040EZ for you for free. Since this only hurt my independent pride and not my wallet, I decided to follow his advice.

So I called H&R Block, made an appointment and dragged myself down there with all the paperwork at the appropriate time. Just in time, in fact, to wait for 15 minutes for the next available consultant. I ask you, what was the point of making an appointment?

Anyway, a fairly unfriendly lady named Luanne greeted me and took me back to her cubicle. I told her my story -- that I had already done the 1040EZ and was just double-checking with their free services. She said rather curtly that to look over the form I already did would cost 20 bucks, but for her to just do a new one was free.

I was getting the distinct feeling that she felt I was wasting her time.

So she proceeded to fill out an online form, and guess what she came up with?

I owe the government $77.

Then she had the audacity to ask me if I wanted her to do my state taxes, for a small fee of course. All I could think was, "You have just proven that I have no need for you." But all I said was a polite, "No, thanks!"

*sigh* I guess I must really be an adult. Clearly, I need to go back to school or start popping out a few kids just so the government can start shelling out the bucks again! But hey, at least I know that I can do my own taxes ... for now.

"Thank goodness air and salvation are still free." - Aunt Jamesina, 'Anne of the Island,' by L.M. Montgomery

Plans and talents and things

It is a truth universally acknowledged that life never goes quite as we plan it.

Take me for example.

In my wildest childhood dreams (or nightmares, perhaps), I never would have imagined that I would be a single woman living with her dog at the age of 25. My mom was married at the age of 19, gave birth to me when she was 20, and had my sister the next year, so I, being a kid like every other kid in the world, assumed this was how life as and that mine would follow suit.

Of course, as I got older, I realized this did not mesh with my college plans, so I upped my marriage plans to age 22 – 24 at the latest.

Clearly, God had other plans. Or maybe he had the same plans, and I messed them up. In any case, here I am, leading a life of freedom where I am able to plan trips to Guatemala and Italy and who knows where else after that. So I guess I can’t complain.

And while I’ve always loved writing, I’ve started wondering lately if my love of writing should have been playing a bigger part in my plans. At the very least, perhaps I shouldn’t have stopped doing it almost altogether. While my career plans from about second grade through freshman year of college were to teach, that’s another plan that never came to fruition – I decided to write, instead, working toward journalism. Later, I decided it would be much more fun to read for a living, rather than write, so I made my goal to be a book editor. Who knows if that will ever happen or not (still hoping!), but here I am now doing neither – editing newspaper copy and designing pages. A fun job? Sure. What I planned? Not even close!

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about that parable about the man who gives his servants “talents” and then leaves for awhile. The servants do various things with their talents – invest them or bury them in the dirt for safekeeping or use them to gain even more – and when the man comes back, he rewards the servants who used their talents wisely and punishes the man who buried his in the sand. The point being, of course, that we need to be using the gifts God gave us.(In case you are unfamiliar with this parable, you can read it here.)

I’m not sure if I have any gifts, and if I do, what they are. But I can’t help but wonder if writing could be one of mine. Obviously, I’m a bit rusty, but hopefully a bit of practice will shine me up again. So I’ve created this blog, on which I plan to post something every day … or at least every other day. I’ve thought about doing this plenty of times, but let’s face it – I lead a boring life, so I never felt like I would have anything worth writing about. But I’ve come to the conclusion that the best way to remedy that problem is to start leading a life worth writing about!

So here’s to hoping this blog won’t be absolute crap. I’d love to have you come along for the ride. Let’s see if I can stick to the plan, eh?

"But of course we can't take any credit for our talents. It's how we use them that counts." - Mrs. Whatsit, "A Wrinkle in Time"