It's okay...

When I was in the radiology center, the tech gave me a gown in which to change and then told me to open the door when I was ready.  I was so afraid.  So, I texted a few people the same thing:  Open the door when you are read means NEVER open the door, right???

I was so afraid and ashamed of my fear.  I wanted to not be alone with it.  And, to be honest, I really wanted to never open the door.

Becky texted back:  It might take that long.  Your feelings are okay.

One of the gifts Bettina has given me is learning along with me.

Things Myrtle longs to hear:

• You're forgiven.
• You are baptized.
• [Any bit of the Living Word]
• It's okay.

I was thinking about that whilst sheering my sheepgoatcatRatBastardpuppydog.  Amos is such a wiggle wort.  For some reason only known to him, Amos has come to avoid hair cuts at all costs.  I had been giving in to his desire to not have to face that particular battle of the mind, but his curls were just too long.  I love them.  I want them spilling all the way to the ground.  But Amos curls, once grown out, turn into tangles and matts.

Now, to be fair, Amos has usually ended up with a wound or two when I cut his hair—I cannot fathom how they possibly happen—but they are not great or grievous wounds.  Amos, however, seems to have the memory of an elephant.  Perhaps he is a sheepgoatcatelephantRatBastardpuppydog.  In any case, I was determined to get all of the bits of him that I had let go over the past few hair cuts.

Two hours thirty-seven minutes.

Two hours and thirty-seven minutes was how long it took to give Amos a proper shearing.  He tucks his legs beneath his body.  He cleans my hands.  He presses his head against my chest.  He climbs atop my shoulders.  He is, to me, rather adorable in his resistance.

This is how he is when he is resisting tending to his major business in the great outdoors.  Like tonight.  For whatever reason, Amos trembled from head to tail on the steps for a long while before quickly darting off the side of them to "water" the dragon.  The next thing I knew, Amos was in my lap, paw around my neck, head tucked beneath my chin.

Three times I set him on the side walk and encouraged him to tend to business.  Three times he very silently glued himself back to my body, still trembling.  And then I told him, "It's okay."  Hearing those words, Amos scrambled over my shoulder and raced to the back door.  They are some of his favorite words, too.

I have to be firm, at times, when his last venture out onto the grass has been more then about 36 hours or so, because, ultimately, bodily needs cannot be ignored.  Sometimes, though, his bodily need is to hear that it is okay to feel afraid.

For months, I have worked on grass aversion therapy, Myrtle style.  I carry him to the grass, tell him silly stories, and slowly lower him to the grass.  Again.  And again.  Many, many times.  Even encircled by my legs, Amos cannot stand the grass.  He will—to please me I think—stand on it, but he will stand trembling and panting.

Because he loves to play fetch, he will fetch a ball I throw out on to the grass, paws barely touching the ground, and then carry it straight to the back door.  Amos basically prefers the flowerbeds, the brick boarders, the stepping stones, and the sidewalks.  He has become rather adept at navigating his backyard domain in his fashion.

And that is okay.


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!