Saturday, October 5, 2013

Irene's journey

This post is pretty rough, but it is what it is.  
My Mom, Irene Hargrove Merrell died this past Monday, September 30. 2013.
You can see the dates on my mom's little autobiography.  The only form in which I had it was as typed pages.  I simply copied them here as images.  
Since Mom's record ends 13 years ago, I added an addendum.  I haven't edited it, so again it is what it is.  I just wanted to get some stuff down while it was on my mind and the rest of the families.
I hope reading about my mom will bless you, as knowing her has blessed many.












Added by Howard:

Until about 2007 Mom's life continued in the same pattern.  She enjoyed living in her little apartment that is attached to my house.  She enjoyed visits from the other kids and from the grandkids who were now out on their own.  Christopher, her oldest Grandchild gave her the name Gooma.  I think it was because in Christopher's world all the regular names for a grandparent/great-grandparent had been used up, so "Gooma" it was.  The other greats followed along & soon even we adults referred to mom as "Gooma."

The situation where mom lived was ideal.  She was very close to Kathy and I, yet on her own.  She had her own kitchen, laundry, car.  Half of the garage was hers.  She parked her car there and had shelves for storage.  She even had a "backyard."  It consisted of a small deck, a little table with two chairs, a couple of planters and a bench, where she would often sit in the sun.  The warmth seemed to help her arthritis.

As mom indicated she had suffered with various ailments most of her life.  I was amazed at the level of health mom enjoyed at this point in her life.  She often went to Texas in the winter time to visit my brother and avoid the worst of the cold and snow.  She enjoyed meetings with a quilting group, outings with the Senior Saints, and all things related to her church.  I'm glad to say that, while she had days that were made hard by sickness and pain, and she never really got over missing Dad, she was quite happy.

Kathy and I began to notice, however, that Mom was more forgetful.  We were concerned that she wasn't taking her medicine properly, things like that.  One day, unknown to her, I followed her to Walmart, to see if she could still drive.  She passed, and stayed on the road for a few more months.  After eye surgery the doctor told her not to drive for a time. She planned to drive again.  Kathy and I had our doubts.  She had allowed one of our sons to use her car while she was grounded.  It needed some work.  She wanted it fixed, so we had it fixed, probably spending more than it was worth.  As the time approached for her release from the doctor, Kathy and I were sure mom shouldn't drive any more.  We talked to my siblings and they agreed.  I dreaded the conversation, but a day or two before her medical release she and I were alone at church.

"Mom, the other kids and I don't think you should drive any more."
With barely any hesitation she replied something like, "OK."
It took another thirty seconds to discuss what to do with her car.  I suggested giving it to one of her granddaughters who was going away to school.  She thought that was a good idea.  In less than two minutes the dreaded conversation was finished and she never complained afterwards.

I'm not sure if mom's mind went back to the days when I was four and five, and we lived in a small apartment in Harvey IL, maybe.  The apartment, back then, had poor heat, especially in the kitchen, so to warm the space mom would sometimes light the oven and open the oven door.  The apartment she lived in a few years ago, had a little electric range.  She got in a habit of turning it on for heat, sometimes forgetting she had done so.  We also found a strange odor in her apartment one day.  Investigation revealed that she had put some chicken in her stove one day, and forgotten about it.  If I remember correctly it wasn't even cooked.  After a few days, the stench got pretty bad.
About the same time she began to mix up her medicine.  We had been using one of those seven day pill boxes for some time.  Maybe on Wednesday, mom would notice that Monday and Tuesday were empty, so she would take pills from Wednesday- Saturday and put them in the empty compartments.  On a couple of occasions she found some pills she wasn't even taking any more and supplemented several day's stock.
We turned off the breaker to her stove, and found all her medications and took them to our house.  We would give her her meds. three times a day.  As long as she was in the apartment she was still able to make coffee, and work the toaster.  She would get her own breakfast most days.  It might consist of toast with chocolate pudding on it, but she got breakfast.  We would eat one meal together, either in her apartment or at our house, and for the other meal we would bring her a plate.  Several times she mentioned to Kathy, "I think something is wrong with my stove."
Kathy would go over and appear to fiddle with the controls, and announce, "You know, I think there is."
Mom would again forget for a while.  Kathy was glad she never lied to her, or had to have an unpleasant confrontation.

Shortly before mom moved out of her apartment, Kathy and I planned to take a trip to Texas to see our son and his family, and my brother.  We took mom along.  It was her last trip (other than the final move she made to Indiana.).  Her inability to adapt, her obvious lost-ness in unfamiliar surroundings, and some struggles with personal hygiene made it absolutely clear that she needed other living arrangements.  My sister, Judy, had recently become an empty-nester.  She had room and wanted mom to make her final home with her.  Since her twin sister, Carol, lives about a half mile away, the situation was ideal.  Mom had a very nice two room suite, with her own bath.  For most of the time she was there she was able to come to the table and get her meals.  At first she helped with simple tasks like folding laundry or helping with meal preparation.  As her mind deteriorated she would "straighten up her room" which consisted of taking all of her clothes out and replacing them in new locations.  Finding them provided my sister with excitement.
Fairly soon Mom forgot her old home.
She couldn't name any grandkids.
Ted, Becky, Kathy and I became unknowns, though it appeared to me by some of her gestures that Mom knew we were someone who belonged.
She began to confuse Judy with Carol, and then couldn't remember either of them.
One of the most difficult times for my sister were the times when mom would cry with confusion.  She couldn't remember who she was.
Finally, her mind dulled to the point that she wasn't confused, just, mostly, blank.  I likened her life to looking out of a moving vehicle through a narrow slit.  She saw nothing of the past, or future, just the immediate present, which I am glad to say still had moments of joy for her.  Probably her chief joy involved little children.  She enjoyed meeting Fiona, my brother's older grandchild and Gooma's seventh great.  She was able to meet number eight, Ava Rae, via Skype.  My Brother and I were at moms for a visit.  Mom reached out her hand and tried to touch the babies face that she was seeing on the computer screen.  For that moment she was happy.

For quite a while whoever was feeding mom would have to repeatedly remind her to take another bite.  A few weeks ago, those reminders became ineffective.  She stopped eating, and then stopped swallowing liquids.  Hospice came to help.  In her emaciated condition, bedsores appeared.  Thankfully, they were controlled, but with no nourishment it was clear that mom would soon die.

In a flash of clarity that my sister will treasure for all her life.  Mom looked at her and told her, "I love you too."
A couple of days later Mom died.

What a privilege it was to know her and be a part of her family.

HM, October 5, 2013

Other Stuff, Table of Contents

Friday, February 24, 2012

GROWING PAINS, #6, RUNNING ON PROM NIGHT:

RUNNING ON PROM NIGHT

  What I don't want is for him to look back and say, "Dad didn't do what he thought was right."

It is 8:30 on prom night and I'm not feeling so good.  No, it's not that I'm having a bad date.  I'm not having a date at all.  I'm 43; I have never been to a prom and at this point I don't intend to go.  My son, though, who is 17, tall, good-looking, very popular, an all-state runner, and excellent student, very much wanted to go, but he didn't go either.  Right now as I begin to put my thoughts into the computer he is at his girl-friend's house, looking at her dress. 
In a way that is appropriate for a 17-year-old he loves her and she him.  She is a nice girl, cute in a pixie sort of way.  Except for the difference in height--if Chris lays on his back, his toe comes up to Nancy's waist--everyone says that they make a perfect couple.  But everyone knows that their difference in altitude is really not important. 
If anyone other than my hard-drive ever reads this article, by the time they get to this point they will be crying out, "Why?"  As I read these words on the screen I wonder if even some chip in this machine--built on logic as it is--is going to suddenly flash a message on the screen,

Does not compute.  Please provide justification.

The feeling in the pit of my stomach asks the same question, "Why?" 
It's not that I don't trust him.  I do.  A few weeks ago we showed the film, Sex Lies and the Truth, at our church.  At the end of the showing I asked the kids to sign a pledge card promising to maintain a standard of sexual purity.  He signed, and later told me that a week before, he and Nancy had been talking and had come to the point where they had made those promises to one another.  When he told me that, there was this little guy in my head pumping his arm, saying, "Yes, yes, YES!"
As you can imagine my son and I have had several conversations about tonight.  I wrote him a letter.  He was around for some of the conversations that I had with his older brother (Who is at the prom.  I'll explain in a minute.), when I tried my best to explain my reasoning.  Neither of them were impressed.
"Why?" you say, "Why are you doing this to him?"  I have asked myself the same question over and over.  I have problems with the sexual overtones of the modern dance, but can't say that I am absolutely opposed to dancing.  I know David and Meriam and others in the Bible danced.  Though I am sure that what they did is far different than what my son's friends will be doing tonight.  I pastor a church that has an official postion that says that those in positions of leadership are to abstain from dancing, and several other taboos.  I have gone on record as saying that that clause should be removed from our constitution.  I am quite sure that if my son went to the prom he would do more sitting than dancing.
Likewise, I have trouble with the music, mostly with the words to some of the songs.  Though my conclusion is that music itself is a neutral vehicle, I realize that some of the songs use that vehicle to push buttons that I don't want pushed in my son or his girl.  Still, I have realized long ago that I cannot isolate my sons from the "sounds of the world."  He can, and probably does on occasion, “tune it in,” dance or no dance.
The local school has done a good job of promoting an alcohol free event, and even if it were served I don'think Chris would drink any.
I have surveyed my mind again and again.  My background is one that matches the mentality of our church’s constitution--dancing is one of those things that Christians simply don't do.  I think I have pretty well sorted out my past, keeping the good stuff and throwing away the junk.  But, have I?  Could I be making my son pay a price because I am holding on to some vestige of my tradition?  I know that there are those who would look down on me if I were to let my son go to the prom.  There are those who would try to feed me some of my words spoken at a time when talk was cheap.  Again, I honestly don't think that is the reason.  In fact I think those who look down on me because of my present position out number my hypothetical detractors should I let him go.  It hurts me to think that Nancy, her parents, my older son, and who-knows-who-else think I am wierd.  I find myself almost getting paranoid about it.  "Are they talking about me?"
I still haven't answered the question, “Why?”  I don't have any one single reason.  I can't point to any absolute that I would violate if I let my son go or he would violate if he went.  But when I put the whole thing together I just couldn't say, "Sure, go ahead and go."  I wanted to.  A part of me regrets that I did not. 
Chris has returned from Nancy’s house; he’s out running.  He needs to get his training in, but I am not so foolish as to think that the only reason he is running is for the benifit of his legs and lungs.  Maybe I am wrong, but it was my call to make and I believe that I would be wrong to not call it the way I see it, even if I don't see it as clearly as I would like.
In less than a year when Chris turns eighteen, unless he does something really stupid in the mean time, I will turn over to him some of the decisions that I have been making for him.  I did that with his brother.  I have no doubt that when I tell Chris that the prom is his decision that he will do just as his older brother has done.  He will go.
I don't expect him to always make the same decisions that I would make.  I only expect him to carefully look at the situation, examine the scripture, pray and then do what he concludes is right, even if it is hard.  If I had done anything else tonight I would have failed in setting that example for my son.  I can stand for him to look back and say I think dad was wrong.  I don't want to be wrong, but I know it is inevitable that on occasion I will be.  What I don't want is for him to look back and say, "Dad didn't do what he thought was right."
That is why my son is out running instead of dancing.

Growing Pains, Table of Contents

GROWING PAINS, #5, RUN KELLY, RUN

RUN KELLY RUN
By
Howard Merrell
Published in Bristol Herald Courier, Feb. 22, 1998

                By the time the young women who run the distance events began their last minute stretches, stride-outs and psych-ups, the track meet had taken on a certain subdued character of its own.  At any one time you could observe some athlete totally focused on giving his maximum exertion to his event, while nearby another participant would be taking a nap.  Groups of participants who had already competed earlier in the day stood around and talked.  Spectators were hot, hungry, and tired. Their attention to the events was sporadic.
            As the parent of a distance runner, I had become familiar with the pre-race ritual.  The routine had an almost religious regularity. Those of us who knew the liturgy could tell that the girls 1600 meter race would begin soon.
            The talk in the stands, among those of us who knew and cared, turned to: Who was fast? Who hadn’t been doing well? We wondered what kind of time the pre-race favorite, last year’s state champ, would have.  The parents and loyal fans were moving to places where they could see better and more effectively yell encouragement to their favorite runner.  Watches were cleared. The fans have their ritual, too.
            Then I heard it—not the real thing, only a weak imitation—from out of a group of fans I heard, “Run Kelly Run”. The three words uttered by a veteran fan brought instant chuckles and conversation from all of us who heard.
            “Is he here?”
            “I think he’s on the bleachers on the other side of the track.”
            “I wonder if we’ll hear him over here?”
            Those of us who knew him had no doubt he would be heard—maybe in the next county. Everyone else was soon convinced.
            The crack of the starter’s pistol had hardly died—the girls were still accelerating; the faster contestants had not yet distinguished themselves from the starting pack—when we hear the voice, the real thing.  It boomed across the infield with a power that defied one to not look for its source.  The voice, sort of like an articulate chainsaw, the two end words elongated for effect, the last slightly less than the first, “RUUUUN KELLY RUUUUN!”
            We were in the presence of a phenomenon, before whom lesser mortals had to shrink.  I am loud, and I often yell myself hoarse at sporting events, but this man is the Babe Ruth of cheering.  The Sultan of Chant!
                                                   RUN KELLY RUN—Page 2
            Like a fog horn on a stormy night, the chant repeatedly fills the track, the bleachers, the surrounding countryside.  The three words of encouragement so fill the air that it is difficult to find the point from which they emanate.  Just the other day I found the source.  I was near enough to him that I could hear not only the famous three words, but words of endearment and quiet encouragement he shared with his daughter when she ran near his seat—or standing place—or pacing area.  The famous chant came from the heart of a dad who loved his daughter so much that he was willing to make a spectacle of himself to help her run.  She chose to run.  He was going to do everything he could to see to it that she did it to the best of her ability.
            “Run Kelly Run!” was still echoing in my mind when I thought about the kid to whom I had given a thumbs up, a “Way to go!” after his event.  I remembered another youngster I had congratulated about a good finish. I wondered about the disappointed kid for whom it just hadn’t happened that day, or the one for whom everything had clicked—he had the performance of his life.
            Don’t get the idea that these are generic kids, made up to flesh out a story.  Each of them has a name.  Each of them is real.  Each participated in the same track meet as Kelly, but there was no one there for any of them.
            I had never seen a mom or dad there to yell for any of these kids.  Oh, there were those of us who seek to encourage them to run, throw or jump, but it isn’t the same.  It can’t be.  Our cheers are sincere, our wishes genuine, our desire to encourage, console, challenge is real.  I’m sure they appreciate the recognition, but I’m equally sure that all of it together wouldn’t measure up to one single heartfelt word of praise from someone who really cares today, cared yesterday, and will still care tomorrow.
            Kelly didn’t win that race.  She came in second, behind the state champ, but she ran a good race.  I am confident she did her best.  I don’t know Kelly or her dad, but I think she will continue to do so.
            I don’t know what kind of a father he is.  I only know that on race days he models something that our culture, our kids, could use a lot more of—parents who are willing to give their kids the priority in their lives that they desperately need and deserve.
            My bellowing friend went to the track meet to encourage his daughter to run.   In the process he encouraged me to be a better dad.


                                                         

                                                        RUN KELLY RUN—Page 3
Newspaper Footnote:  Howard Merrell doesn’t really know Kelly Rector’s father, V.T. Rector, III.   Merrell—from another town and rooting for another team—noticed Rector’s enthusiasm for his daughter.  Three words inspired this story and caused a stranger to re-examine his own role as a parent.  Rector, a graduate, former teacher and coach at Patrick Henry, has been an educator in Washington County, VA, since 1966.  He is currently principal at Rhea Valley Elementary.  Kelly, a 1995 graduate, was All-State in cross country and currently attends James Madison University.  She ran track the first two years but suffered a hip injury and no longer competes.

Footnote from HM:
As it says above I never really knew V. T. Rector.  Chris, my son who is a runner, and I used to refer to him as "Run Kelly Run."
At the meet that I mentioned in the story, somebody took a picture of V. T.  He was kind of hanging out over the railing of the bleachers where he had taken up residence.  The picture which was published with the article above, shows me in the background.
When V. T. died this past year, from complications related to Alzheimer's, the family invited me to read this story at his memorial service.  The service consisted mainly of tributes to V. T.  Kelly's older siblings told how he yelled the same way at football games, and even marching band competitions.  The picture is Kelly and me after the memorial service.

Growing Pains, Table of Contents

Friday, December 30, 2011

Other Stuff, #6, Joy in Washing a Car:

Who would have thought.
I'm not really a car guy.  I do confess to enjoying a nice ride, but I'm not one of the types who takes pleasure in car-ish things per se.  Yet here I was, this morning, taking a strange joy in washing an automobile, and the car isn't even mine.
It's my grandson's.
It is just about the perfect ride for him.  It's a 2000 Isuzu Rodeo, a vehicle more associated with young soccer moms, who can't afford the latest auto-fashion, than a young man of seventeen.  But my grandson is a drummer. One of the features he was hoping for in a vehicle was enough room to be able to haul his drums to the next gig.  It's a nice car.  It has some of the typical 12 year old car issues, but all in all quite impressive.
One reason I took such joy in cleaning up his car this morning is he bought the car mostly with his own money.  He landed a job with a landscaper/lawn service company.  That little silver SUV represents a lot of days spent in oppressive heat and humidity, walking behind a lawn mower, running a trimmer or operating the most basic of earth-moving equipment--a long-handled shovel.  He was by far the youngest guy in the crew, but he earned the respect of his coworkers by carrying his own load.  I'm pleased not only that he worked for his car, but that my son and his wife insisted that he do so.  In a day when so many youngsters feel entitled to a car of their own, and way too many parents feel obligated to provide their offspring with one, it is good to see this kind of "work for it" standard.
I took joy, as well, in knowing where my grandson drives that car.  Right after I cleaned it up, it went to get ready for a concert he is playing in this evening.  While his music wouldn't be to the liking of many who read this blog (as if many read this blog), it is music played to the glory of God.  Day before yesterday it went to a Bible study with his pastor and another young man.  I figure there is up to ten percent alcohol in the fuel tank.  I'm confident there is none in the driver's tank.
I guess, bottom line, I just took pleasure in knowing that something good is continuing on.  I felt like Joshua, "As for me and my house we will serve the Lord."  Thanks Christopher for living the kind of life so your Papa can take joy in helping you out.

But don't get your expectations up.  That might be the first and last time it ever happens.

Other Stuff Table of Contents

Thursday, December 22, 2011

GROWING PAINS, #4, A NEW CARD IN MY ROLEDEX:

A New Card in My Roledex

For most of his eighteen years whenever I wanted to speak to my son I would yell upstairs.  If he wasn't there at the moment I was confident that hunger, desire for TV and the need of a phone that operates without dropping in a quarter would soon compel him back to home.  It wasn't unusual for me to leave some note on his bed, or to stop into his room right after he had gone to bed, plop down in his chair and shoot the breeze for a few minutes.
All of that changed the day I wrote my son's name and address and phone number in my Roledex and in the little directory that I carry in my Day-Timer.  Such a simple action, as a pastor I do it all the time.  There is someone's name and number that I don't want to forget; I write it down.  But in the midst of the doing, the significance of what was being done hit me.
I thought of the fence that I erected in the back yard to try to contain him.  I smiled as I remembered how he climbed out.  I shuddered again as I remembered the time that Kathy thought I was watching him, and I thought she was, and I looked up to see a policeman walking him down the driveway.  My two year old son had been walking down the middle of the road.  "If this was my boy I'd take better care of him."  The officer sternly said.  Afraid and relieved and humiliated, I stammered some reply. 
I remembered firsts:  the first day at school, his first week at camp, the first time he stayed at grandma's, the time he spent the night with my newly widowed mom because he didn't want her to be alone, his first trip, on his own, in the car. 
This day had been coming all along.  I knew it.  I encouraged it.  I even wanted it.  I am not by nature a sentimental person, but when I put the pen to that little card to write down my son's--different than my own--address it brought a lump to my throat.  Would he be all right, off on his own?  Each of the firsts had brought its own time of anxiety.  Was it too soon?  Had I adequately prepared him?  What if something happens?  Will he remember what I taught him?  Each time the boundaries of his freedom were increased and the level of his responsibility was raised, the potential for disaster was increased as well. 
For years I had preached against the selfish actions of some parents--their trying to hold on to their offspring to meet their own emotional needs.  I still agree with what I preached, but the next time I do so I will do so with a great deal more empathy for those parents who just can't quite cut the string.
I was just thinking about a day in my own life.  I was five or six.  I had mastered the "two wheeler."  My range was limited by the block on which I lived.  I could ride on the sidewalk around the block.  I could ride down the alley that bisected our block, no more.  That way I never had to cross the street.  On the day I'm thinking about, my parents told me that I could cross the quiet residential street on which we lived.  The mailbox on the corner across the street, all those houses and yards seen from afar, the unseen world of the other side of that block were now a part of my domain.  On the day that my parents had doubled my world, as I was crossing the street, a drunken driver doing more than twice the speed limit hit me right in front of my house. 
Were my parents foolish to let me cross the street?  Let me answer with a question:  What would you think of a 43 year old man who never left the block on which he lives?  Maybe it was too soon, but I don't think so.  Try as we will we cannot eliminate risk from the lives of our children, and if we love them we will always have to deal with the fear.  Will he be OK on the school bus?  What if she falls with her roller-skates.  If she strikes out and looses the game will she be marked for life?  Can I trust him to treat that young lady as he should?  If I let him cross the street will a drunken soldier in a Road Master Buick run into him? 
We must teach and trust and teach them to trust and obey, and when the time is right we must let them cross the street.  And we must pray.  And we must listen for the sound of screeching tires, or keep their address handy in our Roledex so we can pick them up if they fall and help them through the next phase of growth.

Growing Pains, Table of Contents

Sunday, October 30, 2011

Other Stuff #4, A Bedtime story for the Christmas Season:

Recently, I've been writing some bedtime stories.  My main audience is Kira, one of my grandchildren. I'm using this one, however, in church this morning, for a kid's time.  This morning is our annual "Getting Ready for Christmas" emphasis.
After some cookies and milk get the kids gathered round.  Snuggle and enjoy.
(It's OK for grown-ups to enjoy the tale as well.)

A Lost Donkey Finds His Momma, And . . .
by, Howard Merrell

Dudley just couldn’t hee-haw any more.  For a while he was glad that Daddy Donkey wasn’t there.  Daddy Donkey always said, “If you want to amount to anything, like your Grandpa Darius Donkey you have to learn to “hee-haw” with royal authority.  The lesser beasts should hear you at least a mile away.” 
Dudley had practiced and practiced until his hee-haw shook the leaves on the bushes.  Not as good as grandpa Darius--he could make the palm trees sway-- but not bad for a little donkey. 
Earlier in the day when Dudley called out to Momma Donkey he was at his best.
Sheila Sheep looked at him and said “Baa.”
Cameron Camel slowly turned his head toward Dudley and slobbered in recognition.
Doreen Dove lighted on the bush next to him and said “Coo, coo.”
Howard Horse trotted by and whinnied in reply.
Even Baxter Buzzard swooped down to get a closer look.
But no matter which way Dudley turned his big floppy ears he couldn’t hear a Momma “hee-haw” reply.   Momma Donkey didn’t answer.
It all started a few days earlier, a long way from here, up in Nazareth.  Joseph, Momma, and Dudley’s kind owner came and put the halter and blanket on Momma and said something about a trip to Bethlehem.  Dudley had never heard of Bethlehem so he figured it must be far.  If Momma was going to Bethlehem, what would happen to him?  Momma was telling Dudley to “Just be quiet.  It will be all right.”
But before she finished Dudley let out the saddest most pitiable “Hee-haw,” you ever heard. 
Joseph looked at the little donkey and rubbed him right at the base of his ears.  Dudley loved that.
“Why little fellow, you act like you can understand what I say, but don’t worry.” 
As Joseph spoke Dudley snuggled his head in the carpenter’s course woolen robe.  Sometimes the little donkey would find an apple or some other treat, but not today.
“Don’t worry little fellow.  You can tag along.  I guess the Romans will count you, too, and probably charge me more taxes, but I won’t leave you here by yourself.”
With that, Dudley looked so relieved, that Joseph just stood there in amazement.  “Sometimes I think that donkey understands every word I say,”  Joseph spoke out loud, but to no one in particular. 
Right then, Momma gave Dudley “the look.”  You know, the look that means, “Don’t you dare” do whatever it is that you were thinking about doing right before she gave you the look.   So Dudley just munched some hay, acting like he had no idea what Joseph said.
But he did.
Joseph gathered some hay and grain into a sack, and leading Momma out, said, “Come on Little Fellow.”  Joseph didn’t know the little donkey was named Dudley.  “You just follow behind your momma.”
And Dudley did just that.
Where is this Bethlehem place, where they were going?
Why were they going there?
When would they come back?
Dudley was full of questions, but he knew they would have to wait.  Right now he just watched.  Joseph very carefully and tenderly help his wife, Mary, onto Momma’s back.  Dudley had heard, not only from Momma but from listening to the people talk, that Mary was going to have a baby very soon.
“I wonder why we’re going to this Bethlehem place, right now?” He wondered.  But that was just one more question that had to wait. 
Joseph,  Mary, and Momma went right down the path that led to the Jordan River, far below in the East.  Dudley went from one bush, to a butterfly, to an interesting looking rock, to a flower, to another bush, to an anthill.  If he got too far from the path he would hear Momma call.  Dudley was surprised that Mary and Joseph didn’t seem to hear when Momma would call his name, but Dudley could hear just fine, and when he did, he’d say, “Ok, Momma,” and bound back toward the little travelling group.  Mary would smile a tired smile when she saw him, but she never seemed to hear.
“Hmmm?”  thought Dudley,  “another question.”
That night, Joseph found a place for his little family to spend the night.  Dudley listened to Mary and Joseph talk and knew they weren’t in Bethlehem, yet.  They still had several days of walking.
After some hay and a nice roll in the dust, Momma was ready for sleep, but Dudley had so many questions.
“Just one, Dudley.”
“Aw, Momma, two?”
“No, I’m tired, and we both need to sleep.  We have another long trip tomorrow.  Just one.”
“OK.  Momma.  Why do the people always act surprised when we act like we understand them?”
“Oh, I’ve been wondering when you would ask about that.  Do you see these big ears that Lord God gave us?”
Dudley nodded.
“Well these ears let us hear so much more than the people hear that when we talk we talk so quietly that they can’t hear us.”  So they don’t know we can talk, and I guess they just assume that we don’t understand either.”
“But Momma, why do you and Daddy Donkey, and Grandpa Darius always act like you don’t understand anyhow?”
“Well, young donkey, that is another question, but I’ll answer it anyhow.  We do that because it is easier.  We really know what they are saying, but we act like we don’t.”
“Is that why you gave me the look, when we were back at Joseph’s house?” 
“Now that’s three!  But, yes, that’s why I let you know you should play dumb.  The look! Indeed! You must have been talking to your Daddy again.  Now, get to sleep.”
It was dark and Dudley couldn’t see, but he knew Momma was giving him the look.  Soon he was fast asleep.
It was late in the evening when Joseph and his family arrived in Bethlehem.  The trail was full.  There were people, and horses, and camels, and more people, and Dudley knew Joseph was in a hurry.  Momma tried to hurry without jostling Mary, but even Dudley knew the time for her baby to be born must be soon.  As they were hurrying along, a big group of Roman soldiers came by.  The flags floating in the breeze, the big fierce-looking horses and the shiny brass armor on the men dazzled Dudley.  Dazzled him so much that he lost sight of Momma, and all the hoofbeats, and soldiers talking, and merchants yelling, and camels grunting, and strange donkeys hee-hawing was so loud that Dudley couldn’t hear Momma either, and now he was lost. 
He went on in the way he thought they would have gone, but even when he did his best Grandpa Darius Hee-haw, he couldn’t hear any reply.  Soon he got even loster and the sun was going down, and he got cold and loster.  Now, he wouldn’t have cared if Daddy Donkey teased him about his pitiful little Hee-haw, he would have loved to see somebody he knew, but no one answered, and the darker it got, the loster Dudley got, and the colder, and the sadder, and the . . .
Until he couldn’t “Hee-haw” any more.
All that came out was, “sniff – snuff.”
Poor Dudley’s head was down between his legs and his ears were dragging the ground when he smelled something.  Donkeys can smell almost as well as they can hear.
“Sniff, sniff, sniff,” went Dudley as he lifted his head into the breeze.
“I know that smell.”
“It’s  fire.”
“People make fire to keep warm.”  Just thinking the word made Dudley feel better.
Dudley started walking in the direction of the smell. 
“Maybe, thought Dudley, “these are my people,” and if they are my people, Momma will be there!” 
Dudley was trotting now.  Soon he could see the glow of the fire behind some rocks.  He was running now.  He burst into the little group around the fire, but they weren’t his people and Momma wasn’t there. 
Dudley’s head hung, and his ears drooped.
“Hey, little fellow.”  Said one of the shepherds sitting around the fire.
“How’d he know to call me that?” thought  Dudley.  “That’s what Joseph calls me.”
But the fire looked so warm--and could it be?  Was that man holding out an apple?--that Dudley moved closer to the fire, and took the apple from a little shepherd’s hand.
That’s when it happened!
Suddenly the sky was as bright as noonday.  All the shepherds fell on the ground like they were dead.
Dudley didn’t know what it was.  It looked like a man, but it was like it was made out of fire, only much brighter than the fire around which the shepherds had been huddling.
“Do not be afraid;” the thing in the sky said, with a voice like a people voice, but as loud as Grandpa Darius’s hee-haw.
“ for behold, I bring you good news of great joy which will be for all the people; for today in the city of David there has been born for you a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. “This will be a sign for you: you will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.” (Luke 2:10–12, NASB95)
Then the sky was full of these creatures of light saying with a sound that Dudley thought would split the rocks, “Glory to God in the highest, And on earth peace among men with whom He is pleased.” (Luke 2:14, NASB95)
Then they were gone.  The shepherds just stared at the black sky, dotted with stars, wondering where these marvelous creatures had gone. 
Then one of the shepherds, one with a big black beard like Joseph’s, said, “Let us go straight to Bethlehem then, and see this thing that has happened which the Lord has made known to us.”
Dudley’s little donkey brain was all in a whirl.  Didn’t those wonderful creatures in the sky say something about a baby?  Could it be Mary’s baby?  And it if it was Mary’s baby then Momma couldn’t be far off.
So when the shepherds picked up their staffs and tied their robes around their waists, Dudley followed right behind.  They “came in a hurry and found their way to Mary and Joseph, and the baby as He lay in the manger.” 
Soon the shepherds left.  They told everybody they saw about what they had seen.  Dudley’s big floppy ears could hear them talking a long time after they left.  In fact he could still faintly hear them when he drifted off to sleep snuggled close to Momma.