Last newspaper column: Moving on with thanks and hope

Some friends of mine are moving out of their first home.

The home they perfected with post-wedding dreams and flowers.

The home they first brought their babies to, wrinkled, new and swaddled tight from the hospital.

“Isn’t it hard to leave?” I asked her.

She thought for a moment.

Her answer surprised me. “No, not really. We ‘ve run out of space, and besides, I really don’t get too attached to places.”

Contrast that with me, feelings on my sleeves, hardly able to drive by our first neighborhood without welling up with tears. The willow tree we planted, small and wispy, has long since engulfed the entire back yard with thick and billowing branches. And I can almost smell the baby powder and vanilla of sweet, pastel baby toys still wafting from the windows.

Each move we have made, physically or emotionally, has its challenges and rewards. No place—tangible or unseen—is perfect or stagnant. Change comes like the unstoppable shifting of the seasons, bringing with it the chance to either see things new and budding, or focus on the detritus of annuals which succumbed to the cold, hard winter.

And so it is with the life of a writer—or anyone, for that matter. New callings and opportunities arise. The seemingly constant path becomes weathered and worn. And roads untraveled call to us to move on.

It has been quite a privilege, serving this community with words for nearly three years. What you might not know is that I prayed before I wrote most every column. I prayed to bring you words which encourage and bring hope, while at the same time gently nudging you to take notice of places in our world—indeed, at times next door—which are calling we who are more privileged to lend a hand and send justice their way.

Places like Haiti after the earthquake.

The gulf coast after the oil spill.

Uganda as folks fight to put an end to Joseph Kony.

Indianapolis as it fought sex trafficking during the Super Bowl.

Churches building up and reaching out to neighbors.

Mostly, though, I tried to take something oh-so-daily and twist it . . . paradigm shift it . . . turn it so as to capture a new reflection, thought or idea.

And so it is with great gratitude and a bittersweet heart that I say goodbye as your weekly columnist. Not good-bye to writing, though. If you’d like, you can always follow my weekly blog posts, find updates about my future novels, and read all my past columns here on my blog.

In the meantime, keep looking for twists in your life.

You know, things like laughter and sunsets, lilacs and smiles. Things like parenthood and dogs and paint and rental carpet cleaners.

After all, it’s not the moving that’s hard.

It’s all the things you forgot to appreciate along the way.

Many blessings and hope to you all.

Thank you.

New column: An unlikely (tail) of redemption

Last summer when we first met Dempsey, his small, fragile frame didn’t predict his giant destiny.

We should have known his crooked grin, lop-sided ears and paws, whittled down to stubs, would win hearts and change lives.

We should have known Dempsey would teach us great things about traveling the road less traveled, which leads from brokenness to redemption.

You might remember Dempsey’s story from news reports last spring. Last May, Henry County Humane Society workers nursed Dempsey back to health after he was found with severe and infected burns to his feet, stomach and tail. Officials determined the burns were purposefully inflicted by his then-owners, and charges were filed against them.

An article from the Henry County Humane Society newsletter reported, “Given that he was a boxer mix, and was fighting to survive, the little guy was named Dempsey, in honor of Jack Dempsey, by shelter staff. Dempsey continued to show his fighting spirit by surviving Parvo after his burns began to heal. We all knew that this little dog had a mission in life, and after a few weeks we found out just what that mission was.”

Indeed, his mission is being fulfilled today by his owners, Zionsville residents Rich and Eileen Orban, and their two daughters, Kelly and Kara. Eileen, the education coordinator for the Pike Township Fire Department, learned Dempsey’s story and was awarded ownership of him last summer. Now Marmaduke-esque in both size and lovability, Dempsey goes with Eileen to all kinds of schools to teach kids about fire and burn prevention. Dempsey has even made  special visits to the Hoosier Burn Camp for Children and Camp Brave Heart, a week-long specialized residential camp for children who are burn survivors healing from physical and emotional scars.

Dempsey, the dog who nearly died, spends his days reducing even the burliest firemen to grinning boys. He inspires classrooms full of wriggling children to respect fire, each other, and all living things. As bandaged, burned children reach out to pet his fur-covered scars, Dempsey teaches the wounded they are not alone . . . that healing, though painful, is possible . . . that love, in spite of hate-inflicted hurt, can win.          

Dempsey still has a lot of hardship ahead of him. His deformed paws cause him to limp and walk crookedly and awkwardly, which causes his joints to bear weight they were never intended to carry. He’ll have to have more and painful, expensive surgeries to remedy those things.

Even so, Dempsey has found redemption.

He fought for it, after all.

And as with many who’ve traveled that same road, his healing provides proof beauty really can arise from ashes.

New column: Waiting on ash trees

My ash tree died again.

At least, I thought it did.

Every spring I walk around my yard and check the ends of every tree, bush and perennial for buds I even go so far as to push apart cracks in the dirt to see if my peony stalks are emerging.

And every spring, the ash tree glares at us–gray, barren and rebelling against the hum and happiness of spring–from its place of prominence in our front yard.

“It’s dead. Just look at it,” my family says.

“No it’s not. It just needs time.”

“Everything else is blooming. It’s dead. Let’s call the tree people.”

“Give it a chance. It’ll come around.”

I checked the branches yesterday, and sure enough, I found green peeking out through tiny openings in bulging, brown tips.

Sure enough, the late bloomer emerged.

In a time of year when many are thinking about finishing degrees or embarking on journeys toward new lives and careers, it’s good to consider and appreciate late bloomers among us. In a society which expects instant success, certain direction and unwavering dedication, it’s good to remember how many folks don’t find their niche until later–even late–in life.

Charles Darwin, Mark Twain, and Sir Alexander Fleming who discovered penicillin found their success late in life. Grandma Moses didn’t start painting until she was in her 70′s. Journalist and banker Ian Fleming created James Bond when he was forty-five. Alfred Hitchcock directed his best films after fifty. At forty, Sigmund Freud published his first psychiatric theories.

One of the more fascinating stories of a late bloomer is of Henri Matisse. Known for his use of brilliant color and breakthrough techniques, he failed the entrance examination at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts, but managed to study some through apprenticeship. He was still taking art classes at age thirty, at the Académie Julian where, according to Kenneth Wayne, curator of modern art at The Albright Knox Art Gallery, “he was heckled by the younger students as an out-of-place old-timer.” Referred to as an “imbecile,” Wayne says Matisse was, “plagued by self-doubts and a lack of confidence.”

Finally, Matisse’s career took off when he was thirty-five, in 1905, and despite overwhelming poverty. Wayne writes about how Matisse’s wife Amélie and daughter Marguerite, “would scrape paint off canvases so that he could reuse them.”

Now, experts believe Matisse’s extraordinary and brave use of color were directly related to the hardships he experienced along the way to success. It’s as if he would never have seen color so intensely if he hadn’t experienced such debilitating darkness.

Do you have an ash tree in your yard?

Give it time.

It’ll come around.