Life And Limb

Our dog, our solitary family pet, is a Chihuahua ... yes, Javier (say Hah-Vee-Air) is a trembling little rat-dog who is scared of his own shadow, all big eyes and pointy ears and ridiculous histrionics ... that is, when he's not asleep -- which as it happens is approximately eighteen out of twenty-four hours. At least. But of late he's been getting all "het up" about a large dog that has recently been added to the next-door neighbor's backyard. Of course Javier is separated from this particular canine by an eight-foot privacy fence ... but there's that scent thing going on with dogs, and in the slender openings between the fence boards, Javier perceives the alien beastie trolling the perimeter of his suburban environs. And it sends his little spaceship into orbit.

I work mainly at home, and my "office" is actually a sunroom attached to our den. From where I'm situated at my desk I can watch Javier as he trots around out back, sniffing, checking his messages, growling at squirrels, and squinting as he lolls on his towel, Sphinx-like, sunning himself. This is on those semi-rare occasions when he is actually accepting of the fact that he is obliged to remain outside for a period of time exceeding forty seconds, as opposed to incessantly scratching at the door to be allowed back inside ... where he will do virtually the same things he does outside. Except check his messages. But I digress. Suffice to say, Javier is an indoor dog. The staple of his diet is Purina Little Bites Indoor Complete ... specially formulated for small, indoor dogs, with everything necessary to make his coat shine and provide him with twenty-three vitamins and minerals plus antioxidants. Then why does he beg for scraps? If you figure that out and let me know, I'll send you a framed color photograph of Javier.

But when the weather is fine, not too hot and not too cold, I open the door and send Javy out with this directive: "You're staying outside for a while today. Go on. Don't turn around and start begging to come back in because I won't let you." I try to sound real mean but he sees right through me ... and lets me know it by taking his time moving his tiny tush across the threshold. He knows how easily I am irked by the sound of his little claws scrabbling on the plexiglas door to the sunroom when he's determined to come back in. He can be maddeningly pitiful to look at on the other side of that door. So we go back and forth, Javier and me, furnishing one another with constant entertainment and exercise.

The other day tensions between Javier and the fence escalated to the point where he had been barking nonstop for several minutes. I say "between Javier and the fence" because the dog on the other side of the fence was Ignoring Javy with a capital "I" ... I could see him walking languidly back and forth, but there was no evidence of him taking any interest in the flea-sized critter working himself into a lather for his attention. A picture of frantic vexation, Javy was leaping and lunging at the fence, all the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. When he barks like that, he sounds like he's strangling; it's really quite terrifying. Yeah, right. To a hamster, maybe. But I went outside when I noticed that he had found an opening at the bottom of the fence and had begun sticking his nose into it as though he planned to follow with his whole body and meet his neighbor head-on. Not a good idea, but he didn't seem to know that. Javy is smart in some ways but not that way.

I attempted to reason with him. "If you don't take it out of that space you're gonna get that damp gumdrop of a nose bit off, buddyroe ... and you know how I count on you to sniff out and scarf up everything I drop onto the kitchen floor while cooking [except broccoli ... he won't eat broccoli]," I wheedled. "So stop already! That dog is not going to engage you in any sort of communication! He's laughing at you! He outweighs you by 50 pounds! Have you no fear, no pride or dignity?" Apparently not.

Hackles still vertical, Javier continued to lunge at the fence, barking furiously. He barked so hard and for so long, he began to make himself hoarse! Although when I advised him of that fact he must have heard something different because he stopped suddenly, looked at me, and nickered! Yes! Javier nickered and wagged his head like a horse! I said he was smart! I apologized for confusing him with the homophone but he wasn't listening because he was too busy going berserk, having reverted once again to crazed Chihuahua mode. This went on for awhile until I went back inside. I'm too busy to negotiate a detente between dogs on the opposite sides of a fence. Fish got to swim, birds got to fly ... and dogs got to bark.

"Silly little dog," I muttered to myself as I closed the plexiglas door behind me, pondering the futility of Javy's rash actions. I thought about how unwise it is to rail against things much bigger than us that we can't even see, maybe even putting ourselves in peril by doing so. Not to mention how ridiculous it makes you look to growl and bark and lunge and leap at a perceived "enemy" that is so big, so comfortably powerful, it can afford to act as though you don't exist! So many things in daily life are that way. The evil things that people do, the specters of illness and ruin that sometimes haunt us, the huge problems that loom in the night reaches ... they seem insurmountable and therefore terrifying. But there was a lesson in Javy's reaction to the big dog on the other side of the fence.

Sure, Javier could justifiably stand on our side of the fence and reason: "That big dog is no threat to me. I'm here and he's there, and that barrier ain't going anywhere. Mama puts kibble in my dish each and every day and I don't have to work for it. No need for me to get all in a dither about something I can't change no matter how hard I try." But no. God, his creator, hardwired Javy to unleash all the fury available to him when he smells a threat, and so that's what he does. He disregards his own safety in order to guard his territory. He is loyal and fierce and brave and a little bit crazy when certain things are at stake. He forgets the easy path and takes off lickety-split up the high road. Danger? Maybe -- almost certainly -- but there are principles in play here.

Anybody can go, lemming-like, with the herd.  Going against the grain ... that gives you genuine street cred, in my opinion.  There are some people who believe that your true merit as a human being is measured, at least in part, by how much time you spend out on a limb. I happen to be one of them. Because as someone said, out on a limb is where all the fruit is. Staying in a "safe" place may appear prudent, but in the end you've jeopardized more by keeping yourself safe than you would have by charging into the fray, all flags flying.

A beloved verse of Scripture tells us: And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free. But it isn't just knowing the truth that makes us free, because it's just as true that faith without works is dead. In between knowing and being made free is a heap of doing. Doing what knowing the truth enlightens and empowers you to do. Risking life and limb for what's sacred, what's God-given and therefore more precious than gold, what's not always easy to understand. Doing what's right.  If ye know these things, happy are ye if ye do them.

'Night, Coach ...

I've been thinking a lot about this lately: in a few weeks he'll coach his last basketball game. He began coaching in 1974 after a more than respectable playing career in both high school and college. In fact, he received his B.A. in Chemistry from The Citadel in exchange for playing basketball for four years. Not a bad deal. He loved it. Probably the only thing he has loved more than playing hoops is coaching kids who love to play hoops. And he's coached so many! He's coached kids who have gone on to be lawyers, preachers, jailbait, and just about everything in between. He's coached on the high school and the college level. He's coached both boys and girls, including three of his own children and his then future son-in-law. When he coached his daughters they had only one request: "Don't make us cry." He tried not to.

Diplomatic and decidedly mellow in "real" life, his trim six-foot-four frame supported by size-thirteen feet becomes alarmingly animated during a game. Veins pop out from his handsome neck and forehead; arms encased in 36-inch sleeves begin windmilling wildly as he staggers in disbelief at a "bad" call or a clumsy "layup" that results not in two points, but a turnover. He loses his voice by the second or third game of the season and talks in a raspy croak for weeks afterward. He's been thrown out of a few classy gyms, that one, as well as a few dumps. He almost always knows when his behavior has a chance of resulting in the ref making the "T" sign in his direction, and he measures those odds as carefully as he calculates the next play. Sometimes it's worth it to get "teed up" in order to make a point (although not the kind that goes on the board). Win or lose, no one could ever say he coached a game with less than his all.

Thirty-four years of coaching adds up to a lot of road trips, y'all. For seventeen years he coached in the Midwest, which added up to a lot of very cold road trips. He's driven the bus as often as he's ridden it, and although he has a definite "game face" and strikes a no-nonsense pose as often as not, no kid could ever honestly accuse him of being unfair or unkind. He's competitive but considerate; he's the perfect example of law and order tempered with grace and mercy. On the way home from away games he almost always stops so the kids can load up on fast food, even though it means he'll get home past midnight. And although he's patient as they queue up for their burger/fry/coke feasts, when he stands to his full height and motions toward the bus, they know they'd better wrap it up pronto.

He has always regarded coaching the game of basketball not simply as an opportunity to participate in a sport that you love after you're too old to play it, but as a means of teaching kids important things about life. As he has stressed the fundamentals of a fascinating game, teaching and encouraging his players through wonderful victories and difficult defeats alike, he has been a vital and relevant role model. He is a faithful Christian, a loving husband, and a devoted father. He is consistent, dependable, hard-working, and maddeningly predictable. He's almost always calm but hardly ever boring. No matter when you meet him in the course of a day, no matter what he's been through or what he faces, if you give him a smile he will give it right back to you.

When I met him I was not quite nineteen; he was twenty-four. At that time the sum total of my knowledge of the game of basketball could have been written on a grain of rice, with room left over for chapter one of Pearl Buck's The Good Earth. We began dating two years and six months after we met, were engaged five months after that, and got married five months later. In June we will celebrate our 29th wedding anniversary. If I had a nickel for every basketball game I have sat through since meeting him, I could afford to buy him some of the things he has denied himself over the years so that I could have stuff I wanted. I still don't know all that much about basketball, but I learned a lot about him. Eventually, however, he taught me enough about the game that for years I served as his official scorebook keeper. He claims he's never met anyone who kept a better book. Do you think he's just saying that? I still don't know ...

He told me once that, from the time he was a teenager, more than anything he wanted a wife and family. When we were dating he showed me a creased and worn piece of paper that for years had resided in his wallet. On it was a list of names of girls. When I first saw it I wondered what in the sam hill was going on, and he let me stew for a moment before solving the mystery. Turns out it was a list of girl names he'd liked (only the names!) for a long time. He had written them down because someday he hoped to marry a girl with one of those names, and call a daughter by at least one of the others. The name at the top of the list was Jennifer ... my name. I only remember two other names: Barbara and Stephanie. I nixed Barbara ... no offense, all you Barbaras ... lovely name, just not my taste ... but we named our first child Stephanie.

Even though, like everyone, he has a few flaws and can be exasperating at times, this man lives for his family. Our kids know that their dad stands ready to do anything in his power that they ask him to do for them. They call him when they have problems and questions, and often just to talk. He always has time and he's always interested in what they have to say. As for me, over the years I've been what some might call high-maintenance. He has never criticized me for that; indeed, he wants me to have nice things.

For years I was vocal about my desire to someday own a pair of diamond earrings. A vain and selfish want, but I wanted them so badly. On an ordinary Saturday fourteen months ago, he woke me and announced that we were going shopping. I checked my phone messages for evidence that perhaps the Human Genome Project, needing my husband for their research, had left me a handy clone (my man being no shopper), but finding none, I hastily dressed. By that afternoon I was wearing a lovely pair of diamond hoop earrings that he let me pick out. It made him happy to make me happy. Every time I put them on (which is every day) I think to myself, "I wear his love glittering on my ears." Silly I guess, but that's how I feel.

He'll turn fifty-six in eleven days, a few weeks before his last game. And although in his career as a coach he's won over three hundred games, the team he is currently coaching has yet to prevail in a contest this season. It's possible that at the final buzzer, they will have no stats in the win column. This is a first for him ... and it's a little sad that his swan song won't be followed by a victory lap. Time was he coached teams that made other teams tremble. Those days are in the past. But I admire that, as competitive as he is, he has never let the fact of losing bother him too much. Or I should say, bother him in the wrong way. Through the years he never "brought it home" and made others miserable when his team didn't do well. We didn't have a cat to kick but if we had, he wouldn't have kicked it. He dealt with the frustration by simply working harder at the next practice, because he knows that no matter how many losses come, the next victory is always within your reach. A lot like life.

There are grandchildren now and we have busy schedules, and in no time many things will crowd into the space that basketball has occupied for so many years. And while it is very unlike me to get nostalgic about sports, my eyes will fill with tears when he trudges in late for the last time, hoarse, tired ... with his tie loosened, his sportcoat over his arm, his clipboard and scorebook in hand. He will give me a sweet smile. It will be the end of an era ... and it was a good era. It was fun. I'll miss the sounds and smells of the gym on a winter night, and I'll miss watching his antics on the sidelines. I always thought it was cute when he got all worked up. So I think tonight when he kisses me and says "'Night, precious" as he always does, instead of answering "'Night, baby" as I always do, instead I'll kiss him tenderly back and say "'Night, Coach."

Tales Of Woe And The Wail Of A Toe

Does anyone besides me occasionally get overwhelmed by the mind-bogglingly evil and the tragically misguided and the just plain bizarre behavior that exists in the world? Several things that I've heard on the news over the past several days have prompted me to pose this largely rhetorical question.

For starters there is the heartbreaking story of lovely young Meredith Emerson, who disappeared on New Year's Day while hiking in North Georgia with her beloved dog. The disgusting cretin who told police where to look for her body is believed to have bludgeoned her to death (after holding her hostage for three days) with the collapsible baton found near her remains. He is suspected in several similar killings in Florida and Georgia over the last four months. And whom he murders, he likes to dismember. His victims are generally hikers enjoying the great outdoors. Forget the monster under your bed; he's on the nearest nature trail! This has given me nightmares.

There's the father in Texas who, over the Christmas holiday, shot and killed his two teenage daughters as they sat in his taxi cab ... because he didn't like their boyfriends. Good old dad.

There's the equally dedicated family man in Alabama who, angry with his wife, tossed their four small children off an 80-foot bridge to their deaths a few days ago. Authorities can't find the babies' bodies. I can hardly talk about this.

Another man in Los Angeles stabbed both his ex-wife and her mother to death today before ensuring his own demise by stepping off a 150-foot-high bridge. Proving once again, there is nothing more dangerous than an angry person who has decided they are going to end it all. They always want to take someone -- or several someones -- with them.

But then there's the twenty-something man who allegedly has attempted to kill a sixty-something couple four times in the last eighteen months ... and has failed each time. If he had succeeded in killing them any one of the four times, he would have gotten paid for it because there was a "hit" out on the couple. As it is, he has yet to be compensated for his efforts. The first two attacks were only one day apart, in 2006. On his last try he fractured their skulls. I can't think of an adequate response to this.

There's the unfortunate man who lost a thumb in a woodworking accident. Doctors had replaced what was left of his injured thumb, but the patient was unhappy with the result ... so doctors have replaced the bad thumb with one of the man's big toes. (Who knew carpal and pedal digits were interchangeable?) I'm trying to imagine being in a situation so dire that I would make this suggestion: "Hey doc, how about amputating my toe and plugging it into my hand?" The grafted toe looks huge on the man's hand -- especially when he holds it up next to his other, normal-sized thumb -- but doctors think he will eventually have 80 percent of the use of his new "thumb" ... bad news is, he's missing a toe ... or at least one of his feet is ... and while I feel sorry for the poor guy's trouble, I admit I chuckled at this news segment. Think about it: he'll probably never win at thumb wrestling again (although, who knows?) but he can make toeprint cookies at Christmas. And make up some new rules of toe. Plus which, think of the attention he can now command while hitchhiking! But I must admit, this whole scenario makes me want to sit in the corner and suck my ... er ... thumb.

Then there's the unhappily married man in Warsaw, Poland, who visited a brothel ... (that would be a no-no, y'all) ... and was shocked to find his wife working there! And I don't mean as a receptionist! Wow ... what are the chances? By the way, they're getting a divorce. Probably a good idea under the circumstances.

In an incredible case of life imitating art (cue Margaret Sullavan as Klara and James Stewart as Alfred in 1940's The Shop Around The Corner, Judy Garland as Veronica and Van Johnson as Andrew in 1949's In The Good Old Summertime ... or if you prefer a modern slant complete with Internet access, Tom Hanks as Joe and Meg Ryan as Kathleen in 1998's You've Got Mail ... no matter which you choose, it's the story of a man and a woman who meet via the workplace and instantly take a hearty dislike to one another. The strife they endure by day, however, is mitigated by the pen-pal romance they each enjoy after hours with a mysterious partner who is all tenderness and understanding), my husband told me recently that he'd heard a story about a man, unhappy in his marriage, who was drawn into an online relationship with a woman unhappy in her marriage. How very unusual! They commiserated with one another for a period of time through the ether and then decided to meet. They did, and ... turns out they were already married to one another. That certainly saved some time they would have had to spend dating and getting to know each other! She already knows his shirt size and if he wears boxers, and he knows her favorite flower and which side of the bed she prefers! Now let's all sing Love The One You're With ...

A commercial on TV during the news tonight (which featured a baby cackling uncontrollably) asserted that laughter adds eight years to your life. I guess they didn't factor in all the delightful folks walking around who are looking for an opportunity to kill someone. But I like to laugh and I like life, so I guess I'll keep on looking for the humor and the wonder and the good. And I think I'll stop listening to the news because if I'm going to live eight extra years, I want them to be full of happy thoughts.

In the meantime, God help us.

A Near-Life Experience

Today my son, my baby, went away to college. I, a heart-on-the-sleeve type known for shedding tears at something as innocuous and impersonal as roadkill, was dry-eyed as he drove away. Some of you who know what Andrew has been up to since July will chalk this up to the fact that I "processed" all the feelings attendant on my baby child leaving home back when he went to boot camp, then tech school. This college thing is just a continuation of that; right? He left home months ago and has just been a visitor on occasion since then. Or, one might reason, he's the fourth of four children to leave home and after a while you just get used to it. It's not like I'm a novice at seeing my children pack up comforters and toiletries and clothing and laptops, cram everything into their vehicles, and leave home to seek higher education.

I've watched our three daughters leave dozens of times after summer vacations and semester breaks and so forth; it's old hat and I don't get misty-eyed anymore over them either. Erica drove away on Saturday to begin her final collegiate weeks, which will include student teaching, before graduation in May; I said simply "Love you ... bye." Or, wait ... did I remember to say "Love you" ... ? To my shame I honestly can't recall. I know I said, "Call me when you get there," and of course she did. Years ago I used to keep in touch with the girls at various points during the time they'd be in their cars, just "checking" on them. I don't do that anymore. For one thing they seem to resent it, and for another, once they've left I honestly don't think about it that much. One of the last things Erica said before she left on Saturday was, "I'm a grown woman. I'll figure it out." This in response to some small problem we were discussing. And sure enough, she figured it out. With precious little of my valuable assistance or input.

All four of my children were born in the same hospital, delivered by the same doctor, attended by the same nurses, between September of 1980 and March of 1989. I can still hear my doctor, a bite-sized Korean man possessed of a Zen-like calm who was not known for animated communication of any variety, exclaiming: "You've got your boy!" the moment Andrew was born. I looked up at Greg, who was wearing a surgical mask, and saw his wide hazel eyes grow bright with tears. What happy days those were! The girls had identical blue-and-white striped Easter dresses that year and they posed sweetly on the sofa, ages eight and a half, six, and nearly three, gently holding their blue-sleepered brother between them. I wish you could see Stephanie's look of big-sisterly concern, Audrey's look of sheer wonder (wondering where her Easter basket was, no doubt), and Erica's innocent toddler gaze as they cradled the caboose, the male heir, the long-awaited boy child. Our family, finished. It was a moment.

A few days before that I had been wheelchaired out of the hospital with baby Andrew in my arms. He was sleeping; I was crying. During nearly ten years of marriage, having those children had been my main job. Now I was done with that, and I told myself that the next time I visited a hospital it would not be for one of these joyous events; it would be to die. That's how morbid I felt that day, in the midst of my great happiness! Chalk it up to "baby blues" and the fact that I'd suffered a mysterious infection the day after Andrew was born and spent nearly a week in the hospital on strong antibiotics, unable to see or hold my child. Or perhaps those maudlin sentiments were simply me being prescient ... looking into the future and realizing that, now that our family was complete, the children's growing-up years would go by with all the decorum of a whirling dervish. Which they did. To call them a blur would be completely inaccurate; those years whooshed by me at such speed, they make a blur look like the sharpest picture on earth.

And so Andrew drove away to start college today, and I looked into the mirror and saw a few extra wrinkles, and although I was not moved to tears, I must admit I thought of that old song made famous by Peggy Lee: Is That All There Is? But that was just me being fatalistic, something for which I have an amazing proclivity ... of course it's not all there is. There's lots more to come. The kids know those three bedrooms and bath upstairs are just waiting for when they choose to occupy them once more. They know they can come as often as they're able and stay as long as they like, and that when they do there will be good food and lively conversation and familial strife and all you come home for. In the winter we'll make popcorn, mole out, and watch movies; in the summer we'll swim and have cookouts. Eventually they'll all marry and begin to bring more babies into my arms. And if that's not life, it's near enough for me.

Yes. No. Maybe. I Don't Know ...

What do two Hollywood feature films -- one starring Johnny Depp, the other starring Tom Hanks -- and a small needlepoint pillow in my living room have in common? Not much except that together, they inspired this post ... sort of. Allow me to elaborate. The title of this blog entry is a direct quote from the brilliant Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, a tour de force for none other than my favorite actor (as amazing chocolatier Willy Wonka, whose line it was). So now you understand that part; 'k? As for the pillow, it bears the time-honored adage: "If your ship doesn't come in, swim out to it." And one of my favorite lines from the 2000 Tom Hanks classic Cast Away goes something like this: "Just stay put and see what the tide brings in." Does anyone but me see the wisdom of both of these bits of advice, but have difficulty reconciling the two?

Occasionally I am asked to report a deposition in one of the many small towns that prettify South Carolina. On the way to a whole string of such towns due south of Columbia -- any one of which might be my destination on any given day -- when I merge from one road onto another I pass by a pair of signs that always make me laugh. Taken alone neither one would be particularly funny unless you were really desperate for a chuckle, but as it happens they are no more than fifteen feet apart. The first one reads something like this: "Stay in your lane" ... and the second reads something like this: "Lane ends. Merge left." No sooner have you had time to obey the first command than you are directed to do the opposite. A mite confusing. One must be on one's toes to operate an automobile on South Carolina's roadways. You heard it here first.

How about this ... those who know and love the Lord want to see His face; right? I mean, if you love someone, you want to be with them; right? And no place is more beautiful than Heaven; right? Heaven is Jesus's home and He has gone ahead to prepare a place for us; right? I certainly want to go there ... someday. But not today. Please Lord, not today! I need more time! Lots more! Anyone within the sound of my voice think all this is a little odd? Is this what is meant by the expression "mixed signals"? Could it be we are always talking out of both sides of our mouths ... at least to a certain extent?

It all reminds me of an old Jimmy Durante lyric:

Did you ever get the feeling that you wanted to go,
But still had the feeling that you wanted to stay.
You knew it was right, wasn't wrong.
Still you knew you wouldn't be very long.
Go or stay, stay or go,
Start to go again and change your mind again.

It's hard to have the feeling that you wanted to go,
But still have the feeling that you wanted to stay.
Do, re, mi, fa, so, la, ti, do.
I'll go.
I'll stay ...

I once read an interesting book by Sheldon Vanauken entitled A Severe Mercy. In it the author examines this very issue, and he comes up with a solution that satisfies me. It's simple and easy to remember: the reason we fight all our lives against the clock and the calendar is because although we live in time, we were made for eternity. Our souls will live somewhere for all eternity, but while we live we exist within the boundaries of time as we know it. I'd better quit while I'm ahead or before you begin to think I have embraced existentialism.

But first let me share with you an excerpt from The Solace of Leaving Early by one of my top ten favorite authors of all time, the miraculous Haven Kimmel. My mother gave me this book for an early Christmas because I asked for it by name and that's the sort of mother I've got. I've been slowly savoring the book for the past month (as time allowed, heh heh). Tonight I happened upon this passage dealing with our longing for a different life and different circumstances even though the ones we have are perfectly fine and are generally making us as happy as anyone can expect to be:

... at the outset of every moment of concrescence, there are, in the Primordial mind of God, all the pure possibilities for the outcome of that occasion, moment by moment, day by day, for every actual thing: you, me, the dogs, the government, geraniums. And all God desires is beauty and goodness, the harmonious resolution of contrasts. We are happiest, I believe, and God is certainly happiest, when we allow ourselves to fall into beauty. God is luring us there, even now, breath by breath ...

... we have abandoned an infinite number and variety of pure possibilities, and perhaps they live alongside the choices we did make, immortalized in the cosmic memory. Perhaps there are unknown lives walking alongside ours, those paths we didn't take, and we reach for them, we ache for them, and don't know why. We have, none of us, lived our lives as we ought to have, and maybe that's a good, working definition of sin. God doesn't care, the angels don't care, no one is mad at us for our failures. But what agony, to know our better selves, the life we might have lived is there, just out of reach!

I watched It's A Wonderful Life at least six times this past Christmas season. Oh, I didn't sit and watch every minute of it six times ... I think I only did that once ... but I had it playing as I did other things, and I listened, and I enjoyed it as much or more than I ever have. I love that movie because George Bailey learns the lesson that of all the choices he made and many he had forced upon him, the best one was that he was an honest, true, obedient servant of mankind and, ultimately, of God ... even though he said he was "not a praying man." Shame, that ... but I'll bet if there had been a sequel to that film (horrors!) George Bailey would have been more of a praying man. After all, when the bell on the tree rings at the end and Zuzu pipes up: "Every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings," George winks Heaven-ward. He gets it. Through all the mixed signals life throws at us, one thing never changes: God. And what He wants from us is always the same: simple obedience and the faith of a child.

Speaking of Zuzu, I was reading on IMDb a few weeks ago that Karolyn Grimes, the actress who played Zuzu, had been interviewed on a Chicago radio station in 2005. During the interview Karolyn/Zuzu, who will turn 68 on July 4, 2008, stated that she would answer emails sent to zuzu@zuzu.net. So on December 15th I wrote to her, thanking her for her work not only as Zuzu Bailey, but also as Debby Brougham in The Bishop's Wife, another of my favorite holiday movies. With all the hubbub surrounding Christmas, I promptly forgot that I had written to "Zuzu." But coincidentally, while I was composing this blog, I checked my emails and look what I found:

Hello Jennifer,

Thank you for writing. I always enjoy hearing from folks who love these films as I do. Family is the true backbone of this country and this movie gives us a chance to remember and renew in our hearts how important that it really is. May you always have the ability to find the good in every path that you choose. Life is not always wonderful but we have been given the great gift of making our own choices. Always keep the magic of these films in your heart and remember that each of us has our own Clarence watching over us.

God Bless,

Karolyn Grimes/Zuzu Bailey

To that I can add nothing so I simply say: Amen.