I am not a swearing man.  You can ask my kids.

But sometimes, and only just sometimes, cussing gets to the point and tells the story better than without the bad word. This is one of them.  So here it goes.  Be prepared.

God had to literally kick my ass to get my attention.  Literally. Well, sort of literally.

I have been a Christian for many years.  I believe I was in the ninth grade when I gave my life to Christ. I went to church, I was very active in my church’s youth group. In high school, I often went to church on Saturday night as well as Sunday morning.  Over the years I was a youth director at three different churches. My wife and I worked hard to ensure our wedding ceremony was all about God. I served as an elder at my Presbyterian church numerous times.

But … and this is a big but….I rarely prayed and I seldom read the Bible. I had been a Christian over 40 years and I was still a baby in my faith. I believed, but I lacked any faith. I believed in God.  I believed that Jesus had saved me. But I did not believe God.

He got tired of me still being Tommy and in a short amount of time ripped away from me everything that was the most important.

• After 20 years of working for the local phone company, my employer closed my office and I was forced to retire. Please be aware I was far from being financially ready to retire.
• My son was in college, 125 miles away, and rarely came home.
• One daughter was working in Japan, and the other daughter lived in New Orleans.
• My wife left me.

God removed my job and my family. I was naked.

This was not unfamiliar territory for me. Many years ago I was working in a warehouse. It was a great job.  I worked with really good people. But I knew…..I just knew that God wanted me to leave and chase after my heart’s desire — to be a newspaper reporter. But I played it safe and continued to work as a shipping clerk in the warehouse. I was too afraid that I would fail as a journalist. I had known since sixth grade that I wanted to be a writer, and I could not stand the thought of failing at something that had been my dream profession for so long.

God had enough and out of the blue one Friday afternoon my boss fired me.  It was a total surprise.

(I did land a reporter job, and soon after that accepted an editor position.  It turned out I was pretty good at it.  Sigh…..)

So here I was again.  Ignoring God……or at least ignoring all that He had to offer me.

I had nothing. I was stripped naked before God. My soul was baren. I was all alone before my God.

I cried a lot.  Actually, I wailed. And I wailed.  And I wailed some more. The wailing turned to crying. The crying and wailing would sometimes change to yelling at God. Everyone once in a while the yelling would change to pleading.

I sometimes found myself on my knees, with snot streaming from my nose, tears pouring from my eyes, my heart screaming and my lungs gasping.

But mostly I just felt extraordinarily alone.

It did not take very long to discover that God really is amazing.

He let me know just how much He loved me — and He showed me in some creative ways.

First, there was my daughter’s dog.  You know about the dog if you read my second blog.  The story is only really impactful if you know how deep my disdain was for him.

God does have a sense of humor.

Three years later the dog still has a very, very, very important place in my heart. I give him a treat every evening at 9 pm.  I do not forget. About once a week or so I get on my knees, get face to face with him, and wrap my arms around his neck and warmly hug him. I whisper in his ears that I love him.  I know, I just know that God used the dog to show how much Christ cares for and loves me. There is no doubt. It is so wonderfully amazing to me that God used a dog — a dog that I absolutely did not like — to reach out to me.  The dog must have known that I thought he was an idiot. Yet he was faithful enough to check up on me during those walks.  He was faithful enough to smile at me.  God used this dog to save me.

After that, God started putting people into my life. I wish I could write about one in particular (you know who you are), but I cannot. This person and his wife welcomed me into their home, fed me, and listened to my stories.  Over the last couple of football seasons, I have been invited to their house to watch the games. We were friends before, but even more so now. A pastor came into my life at exactly the right time.  He did not know my story but sensed he needed to spend time with me.  He started taking me out for lunch or dinner and we just connected.  He formed a small group at our church and it was so huge in my healing.  It was a very safe place and many of us poured out our hearts there.

A farm about 300 miles from my home was also a safe place for me. A friend from college married a farmer and they have blest me so many times. It is a second home to me. They are both interested in my life story, listen intently, and sometimes ask hard questions. They do hold me accountable. Over the last three years, I have spent three or four long weekends there, gettings hugs from my college friend and forehead kisses from her husband. These visits are an opportunity to be pampered, but they were also a chance to remove myself from the daily reminders of what my life had become. I could go on and on about these friends, but needless to say, they are God’s little angels on Earth.

God was so good and so faithful in how He took this naked Tommy and started to make Himself real to me. So many times …. so many times….at just the right time I would receive support from just the right person or in some other way. I would get a text or a phone call. I would get invited to dinner. Guys would come over and we would play games. My brothers called me, to check-in. And like I wrote in my first blog, my yard became my sanctuary — a place of beautiful healing.

But I would be truly remiss if I did not share one story from the early days of the separation. It was an awful day.  I felt so low, so very empty. I knew I could not be alone. I needed to be with someone, someone who knew me, who loved me. I was on a walk with the dog and it was mid-morning.  I was horrified that I faced a whole day of being lonely and empty. My heart was screaming. I felt sick and I believe I was shaking. I was desperate.

I called my sister.

 

She legally is my step-sister (that did not last long — she is a blood relative in my book). As teenagers, we battled a lot. She followed the rules and I was a rebel.  “Mom said,” was her calling card. One day I grew tired of the fighting.  I was a college student and called her from my dorm phone and apologized and we agreed to be friends.  I cannot imagine a better friend.

 

I do not remember the details of the phone conversation while I walked, but she must have heard the tone of my voice.  She lives about an hour away and my sister drove to my house and we spent a few hours together.  It was magical. The effort she put in to make sure her baby brother was safe was magical. Thank you!!

It was another amazing gift from God.

I recently read a Facebook post from a friend. It aptly tells part of my story these past three years. I cleaned up some of the text.

“…. ..I could hear God saying to me, ‘I had to break you to show you why I created you. You had to go through it so you could fulfill your purpose’  There are some people who will be content just ‘being,’ but some of us that God has chosen must be broken. We have to get sick. We have to lose our job. We go through a divorce. We have to bury our spouse, parents, best friend, or our child. In those moments of desperation, God is breaking us. But, when the breaking is done, then we will be able to see the reason for which we were created. So when you see (me), just know that I  have been broken, but (also) healed by His Grace and Mercy.”

That was me.  I was not going to totally surrender to Christ without being broken.  I was not going to trust Him completely without being ripped apart. It just was not going to happen.

My stubbornness had a steep price. It cost me everything.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I put up with the dog for many years. The Golden Retriever joined our family as a puppy around 1999, and during most of those years, I just did not like him. He got in the way a lot and was not very smart.  And he certainly did not retrieve.  I literally could not find any redeeming feature in this four-legged beast.  No, come to think of it there was one huge plus for the dog.  He did not bark.

That was it.

I was certainly the odd man out.  Everyone else loved the dog.  Literally. Everyone.

Most of the time I just put up with him. Yes, he was great around children.  Yes, he just wanted to please.  Yes, he smiled a lot. Yes, he was gentle.

But again, he did not retrieve. He was a Golden Retriever who refused to bring the stick back. I would throw the ball, the stick, whatever, and the dog would take a few steps towards the object, look at me, and then gaze at the object.  If I was lucky, the dog would jog towards the object, put it in its mouth, take a step or two towards me, and then drop it. And then he would do his dog smile and pant.

I am quite sure the dog failed “retrieving” in school, and I am also fairly certain that if IQ could be tested, my daughter’s dog would be in the single digits.

I was never quite sure why everyone else adored the dog.

My feelings did a 180 back in November of 2015. My eldest had boarded a jet plane for Japan and was going to be gone for a year. I was alone in the house and stuck with dog duty.  I did not sign up for this.  Unemployed and alone, I thought it would be a great idea if I started to walk. This would burn calories, get me out of the house, and provide time to contemplate life.  I thought it would be good to have a walking partner, so I loaded the dog into the truck.

It turns out that God had a plan to help get me through this hell — and it involved this dog.

I walked nearly every day — usually about six or so miles. Rain or shine.   After a few days of this, I started to notice a pattern.  I would let the dog out of the truck and he always sprinted down the path several feet from me. He always stopped, turned around to look at me, and waited for me to catch up. He did this over and over and over again. When he turned to look at me, his tongue hung out of his mouth and he’d smile at me. His eyes sparkled.

I cried and sobbed a lot during the early days of the walking. Sometimes I talked to God, while on other days I would just contemplate in silence.  I never listened to music. I wanted to be completely open to hearing God’s voice. I thought a lot. I wondered how my life had shattered so quickly and so completely.

I am quite sure I never smiled in those early days of walking.  I probably looked very, very, very sad. Because I was very, very, very sad. I was alone, alone with a dog.

I eventually realized when the dog stopped and turned to look at me and wait for me, he was making sure I was OK. He was checking up on me. It was obvious he had been reading me all of this time.

This happened day after day after day.  For well over a year.

That smile — it got to me.  It stretched from ear to ear. I saw his chest expand and contract as he waited. I saw the grin.  I saw the tongue. But I also saw that he still loved and cared for me, even though he must have known just how little I care for or about him.  It was so obvious. Remind you of anyone?

Even though I was alone in the big house that sat on nearly an acre, God gave me a gift of a very loyal dog that took care of me.

I no longer ignored the dog at home.  I often found myself hugging him tightly, telling him how much I appreciated and loved him. He just sat there and soaked it all in, with that same smile and that same tongue hanging out. We were buddies.

I  now know that sometimes God provides protection and healing in ways none of us could ever imagine.

My heart was still broken.  I was still sad.  I still cried. I still chewed out God.  But He provided in flesh someone in the shape of a Golden Retriever who loved me unconditionally and would listen to me, day or night, and smile. And what a hugging machine.

Who cares if he doesn’t retrieve.

 

 

 

 

Over the last few years, my backyard has become my sanctuary.

It has been a long haul to get to that statement. In 2001, my family begged and pleaded with me to buy this home. It is a brick rambler with just shy of an acre of land. It is loaded with fruit trees, berries, grapes, vegetable gardens, flower beds, and lots of lawn. When I was introduced to it, I only saw work.  I saw weeding.  Lots of weeding. I hate weeding.

I balked but was promised all I would have to do is mow if I agreed to the move.  I said, “Fine, but I get a riding lawnmower.”

I was getting a riding lawnmower. They were getting weeds.

 

 

We loved to share the home and yard with family and friends. The dirt driveway was paved and a basketball hoop was set up. A swimming pool graced the backyard in the summer. We hosted parties, the children felt comfortable inviting their friends over to play, we would often host Christmas and Thanksgiving dinners for family members. When my step-mom died, our home became a gathering place for our large, extended family, including one evening when we hosted 50 people for dinner. The church praise band practiced here. Sometimes I had friends over for a game night. A bridal shower was held here.

I had great fun setting up croquet courses that featured water hazards and jumps — including one that went through a tire swing.

Fast forward several years. Life turned upside down in 2014.  That August I lost my job of 20 years, and on November 15, 2015, my wife and I started to live apart.

Soon after the separation, I would often walk the acre. With the dog nearby, watching my every move, I would cry out. Rivers of tears poured down my cheeks, and I would gasp for air, crying out in despair. 

What was once a home bursting at the seams with family and friends, was now so utterly silent. It was just me and the dog. My worst nightmare turned into a horrible reality.  

My daughter’s dog — who I thought for years was the most stupid, obnoxious dog, would soon become a gift from God.  But that is the next story.

Early on I had no interest in keeping the home. It is just too big, too much for one person to maintain. I am certainly not a gardener.  I am, for the most part, not able to tell the difference between a weed and anything else.  But I also knew that the house would haunt me with all the great memories experienced here. I would be alone in those memories and that was terrifying to me.

Over time, though, that changed. When I was feeling especially low, I often walked into the backyard.  I discovered a wonderful peace there. Even in the cool, wet winter, I’d stop with the raspberries to my right, look up into the sky, close my eyes, and take a deep breath. The air filled my lungs and I felt a bit more at peace. The fresh air seemed to wash away a bit of the sadness and dread. It was a few minutes of peace.

 

 

Months later as spring approached, the yard came back to life again. The tulips purchased in Amsterdam were poking out of the ground. Daffodils began to flower. Eventually, all of the fruit trees turned green and began to bud. I felt somewhat stronger as I continued in my routine of strolling by the berries and the trees. I felt the weight on my shoulders lift a little. This was where I would talk to God.  This was also where I would scream at Him, sometimes using language that, well, God does not endorse but He certainly understood why they came out of my mouth.

There was also a homemade bench that sat at the base of a tall fir. I’d often pause there and look beyond the grass, past the plum trees, over the grapes and flower garden, and all the way to the house. Gratitude swept through me, and despite my grief, I felt very blessed by God. Maybe I even smiled. This was a great gift. My life was in turmoil, but it was obvious that God was telling me to stay put.

I felt I could breathe when I’d walk the acre. I soon knew, I just knew I could not leave here.  This was my quiet place.  This was where I would be restored.  This was my sanctuary.