Darcy Cheyenne Klause was born just before midnight last night.
When this picture was taken, she was less than 12 hours old. It’s been a long time since I’ve been around a baby that young (Annie, I think. Abigail and Kimmy were almost a full day old by the time I saw them for the first time).
Big sisters come to greet little sister, held by Daddy.
Her big sisters are thrilled with her. 
Thank you Lord for the gift of a new life.
Behold, God is excellent, and we know Him not, neither can the number of His years be searched out.
When he restraineth the drops of water, the rain poureth down by the vapor thereof,
Which rain the clouds do drop and let fall abundantly upon man.
Who can know the divisions of the clouds, and the thunders of His Tabernacle?
Behold, He spreadeth His light upon it, and covereth the bottom of the sea.
For thereby He judgeth the people and giveth meat abundantly.
He covereth the light with the clouds, and commanded them to go against it.
His companion showeth him therefore, and there is anger in rising up.
At this also mine heart is astonied, and is moved out of his place.
Job 36:26-33 & 37:1 (Genevan Version)
Quote from Matthew Henry on this passage…
…the general scope of it is to show that God is infinitely great, and the Lord of all, the first cause and supreme director of all the creatures, and has all power in heaven and earth(whom therefore we ought, with all humility and reverence, to adore, to speak well of, and to give honour to), and that it is presumption for us to prescribe to him the rule and methods of His special providence towards the children of men. Elihu, to affect Job with God’s sublimity and sovereignty, had directed him to look unto the clouds.
Consider the clouds…
1. As springs to this lower world, the source and treasure of its moisture. The clouds above distill upon the earth below. If the heavens become brass, the earth becomes iron; therefore the promise of plenty runs, I will hear the heavens and they shall hear the earth. Every good gift is from above, from Him who is both Father of lights and Father of the rain. They are said here to distill upon man, for, though indeed God causes it to rain in the wilderness where no man is (ch. xxxviii. 26; Ps. civ. 11), yet special respect is had to man herein, to whom the inferior creatures are all made serviceable. Among man, He causes His rain to fall upon the just and upon the unjust, Matt v. 45. There are said to distill the water in small drops, not in spouts, as when the windows of heaven were opened, Gen. vii. 11. God waters the earth with that with which He once drowned it. Though it comes down in drops, yet it distills upon man abundantly (v. 28), and therefore is called the river of God which is full of water, Ps. lxv. 9. The clouds pour down according to the vapour that they draw up. So just the heavens are to the earth, but the earth is not so in the return it makes.
2. As shadows to the upper world (v. 29): can any understand the spreading of the clouds? shall we then pretend to understand the reasons and methods of God’s judicial proceedings with the children of men whose characters and cases are so various. By the interposition of the clouds between us and the sun, we are favoured; for they serve as an umbrella to shelter us from the violent heat of the sun. A cloud of dew in the heat of harvest is sopen of as a very great refreshment, Isa. xviii. 4. Sometimes we are by them frowned upon; for they darken the earth at noon-day and eclipse the light of the sun. Sin is compared to a cloud (Isa. xliv. 22), because it comes between us and the light of God’s countenance and obstructs the shining of it. But though the clouds darken the sun for a time, and pour down rain, yet after He has wearied the cloud, He spreads His light upon it. There is a clear shining after the rain, 2 Sam. xxiii.4.
High in the Mountains by Alfred Bierstadt
“Expose yourself to the circumstances of His choice.”
This little phrase, which has stood by many a climbing soul, seems to have been coined for our picture of great circumstances. The confusion of the skies has been so wonderfully captured that we all but see the movement and hear the wind that rushes past. The cloud in the picture is sunlit, but with an awful speed it may cover the face of the mountain with darkness. Mist, rain, snow – the cloud may bring them all and the precipice falls away at our feet. “But none of these things move me, neither count I my life dear unto myself, so that I might finish my course with joy” – there speaks the spiritual mountaineer.
The Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog by C.D. Friedrich
No parable shows everything: no climber among the precipices purposely exposes himself to stormy wind, and he does not willingly walk into cloud. But spiritual mountaineers must; and at such an hour there must be “some perseverance when we are tired, some resoluteness not to let ourselves off easily,” something akin to the spirit of the world’s mountaineers, “a spirit firm and tenacious and ambitious enough to drive on the body to its seemingly last extremity.” There is no such thing as an easy or a sheltered climb. But “what know they of harbors who toss not on the sea?” And what know they of succor who have never ventured in difficult places? We shall press through the mist and the smothering snow; we shall climb and not give way; for there is One Invisible with us, “and with every call of every hour His word is, ‘Let us go hence.’”
Gold By Moonlight, chapter 9 page 73 by Amy Carmichael
Storm on the Sea of Galilee by Rembrant
Likewise, ye younger, submit yourselves every man, one to another: deck yourselves inwardly in lowliness of mind: for God resisteth the proud and giveth grace to the humble.
Humble yourselves therefore under the mighty hand of God, that He may exult you in due time.
Cast all your care on him: for He careth for you.
Be sober, and watch: for your adversary the devil as a roaring lion walketh about, seeking whom he may devour:
Whom resist steadfast in the faith, knowing that the same afflictions are accomplished in your brethren which are in the world.
And the God of all grace which hath called us unto His eternal glory by Christ Jesus, after that ye have suffered a little, make you perfect, confrim, strengthen and establish you.
To Him be glory and dominion forever and ever. Amen.
1st Peter 5:5-11 (Genevan Version)
My Genevan Bible notes the following about this passage…
Verse 5: He commendeth many peculiar Christian virtues, and especially modesty: which admonition all of us stand in need of, but especially the younger sort, by reason of the outwardness and pride of that age. Because pride seemeth to many, to be the way unto the glory of this life, the Apostle witnesseth on the contrary side, that ignomy of shame is the reward of pride, and glory the reward of modesty.
Verse 6: Because those proud and lofty spirits threaten the modest and humble, the Apostle warneth us to set the power of God against the vanity of proud men, and to hang wholly upon His providence.
Verse 9: The persecutions which Satan stirreth up are neither new nor proper to any one man, but from old and ancient time common to the whole Church, and therefore we must suffer that patiently wherin we have such and so many fellows of our conflicts and combats….which are dispersed throughout the world.
Verse 10: He sealeth up as it were with a seal the former exhortation with a solomn prayer, again willing them to ask increase of strength at His hands of whom they had the beginning, and hope to have the accomplishment, to wit, of God the Father in Jesus Christ in whom we are sure of the glory of eternal life.
On April 5th, 1959, my great grandmother, Bessie Bricker Cover died. She was the mother of six girls, of which only four survived to adulthood. The eldest of those girls was a lady by the name of Jane Elizabeth, my maternal grandmother. Due to a stroke, Bessie had been ill for some time, but she wanted to live long enough to see the birth of Jane’s fourth child. Sadly, her wish was never granted, for she died four days before my mother was born on April 9th, 1959. Sometimes I wonder how my grandmother could have buried her mother and had a child all within a few hours. It must have been tragic. I half fancy, though, that this is one reason why she named my mother Hope Elaine. Jane knew a wonderful Christian woman named Hope, and Elaine is Greek for shining light.
This week, we are giving my mother a vacation. This means no hospitality, no e-mails, and a lessening of some responsibilities. A break is long overdue. No soldier can fight indefinitely. We’ve had over 400 people in and out of our little house since 2002. We’ve shouldered many responsibilities as a family, and they’ve mushroomed greatly in recent years. Especially since my father became an elder in a local church plant, the daily list of duties has been enormous. Actually, the work isn’t so bad. My mother has a strong Yankee work ethic, and isn’t afraid to work hard. Neither are the rest of us, for that matter. But the trials that inevitably come with this kind of life come in a range of all shapes and sizes.
Sometimes, I feel like I’m a mountain climber, staring up the grim slope of Mount Everest. Mt. Everest is often called Sagarmatha by the locals, which means Head of the Sky. The lure to scale the highest point of the globe is irresistible, and hundreds of mountain climbers from rank novices to experienced climbers pay exorbitant sums just for a chance to conquer this tectonic monster. It’s not an easy climb, for the highest peak reaches into what is commonly known as the death zone. This is where there is not enough oxygen to sustain human life. And that is just one of the dangers. Frozen, slippery snow, temperatures so frigid that any exposed skin is frostbitten, lack of atmospheric pressure, and severe weather are just some of the difficulties any climber may face. Click photos to enlarge. It’s beautiful.
In a way, this is rather picturesque of the Christian life. We are climbing a mountain, a huge mountain, beset with difficulties. John Bunyan used this analogy in his most famous work Pilgrim’s Progresswhen he described the Hill of Difficulty. The reward is great, but the struggle to attain that reward is taxing, often fatal. At Mt. Everest, conditions are so severe that climbers that die on the summit are usually left there. Even today, it is possible to see the frozen corpses from the standard climbing routes, a grim reminder that many never make it to the top. But for those that do, one of the richest experiences in the world awaits them. Imagine what it must be like to stand on top of the world, able to see for miles and miles, to be so high above the earth that the sky is bright with sunlight, but black from the lack of sufficient atmosphere. Endless beauty. Endless wonder. Click the link below to see what I mean.
http://www.panoramas.dk/Fullscreen2/Full22.html
The mountain my mother is climbing is like Mt. Everest, beset with incredible difficulties that I, at a scant 23, am only just starting appreciate. Her view of endless beauty is one where there is a community of families together that love the Lord, a covenantal community, if you will. After she has gathered all these people together, she would feed them all. Then she would read the children poetry and a story or two while the mommies visited and the daddies conquered world problems. After that, she would serve up some more lemonade and get the hymnals ready for a hymnsing. In between all of that she would have a twinkle in her eye directed at my father as she is hopelessly in love with him. After the hymnsing she would make sure everyone is tucked into bed and take inventory for breakfast. Then maybe, maybe, she would go to bed.
It’s not a very expansive thing she wants, not really. In fact, it’s so simple, it’s ridiculous. And might I mention that this is not just her thing, but my entire family’s. My father has a vision, reflected well in my mother, and beginning to reflect also in me, not to mention my siblings. These efforts began way, way back with my great-grandparents who loved and served the church. Many times we have thought that we were close to the top, but the enemy would pull yet another deadly trick. This is one reason why my father insists that we need to have a wartime mentality. The greatest battles today are being fought for the biblical family and the local church. (Not merely the morally trained family and the mushrooming para-church.)
Back to the time off-week. My mother is a bit weary from the climb and frostbitten so we have been doing things to encourage her. We readily admit that we are real people and can not hold up a false image that we can run the race without some stops along the way. Blogs tend to put a glorified plastic finish on families but frankly we just aren’t plastic.
Last week my father took my mother to the zoo (we kids tagged along) and this week we have found out some other things that she would like to do. Hopefully we will be able to pull these things off along with giving her frozen Hershey kisses here and there … and give her an enjoyable week and a rest from the battle. My mother is so funny though. For years, whenever we would ask her what she would like for Christmas or Mother’s Day or her birthday, she has always replied, “Good kids.” Since she rarely buys anything for herself, all of us girls together have purchased a little treat for her that we think she is going to really, really like. Keeping it a secret for several months has been hard.
It’s a wonderful thing to have a Christian heritage on both sides of my family. This is something I had nothing to do with and it is like being given something of priceless value for free. Five generations on one side and four on the other. I hope to never take it for granted. I do wish, however, that my maternal grandmother and grandfather would have lived into my lifetime so that I could have met them and spent time with them. My parents believe that if my grandfather were alive, he would join us in what we are doing here in Texas and be a great support and help to us. His vision for the church and the family was like my dad’s and my grandfather wanted to keep going until, as he would say, ”he ran out of gas” in serving the Lord with likeminded folks. Just the fact that my parents tell me this heightens my appreciation for my Christian heritage.
Here is a picture of my mother with her friend, Rene Hammitt, from Indiana that visited us this past week. My mother loves Mrs. Hammitt as evidenced by the tears she shed when the Hammitts left for their Indiana home. My mother loves the kindred families we know - and especially babies - and so it brought her great joy to be able to see her friend’s baby, and as you see in the photo she could not wait to hold Grace.
Last year when the Hammitts lived in Texas, Mr. Hammitt advised my parents in hymnsings to “play it in the key of Q” and this has been a standing joke between my parents. This time Mr. Hammitt recommended “play it in a LOW key.” We figure Indiana must have lowered his voice. He’ll have to move back here to sing tenor, I suppose. Maybe we could conclude from that, with a little state rivalry, Texas brings people to higher heights?
What no one sees behind the scenes, I get to see. Earlier that afternoon my dad called my mother into the living room when he was on the electric piano. She was cooking in the kitchen, getting ready to feed the company soon to arrive so she came to the acoustic piano with her apron on. My dad wanted her to try out her new piano glasses (which were recently made with a prescription at exactly 26 inches from her nose to the music) and to set volume levels. He suggested “Wonderful Grace of Jesus” as a try-out song but I think he got a little carried away. You can not hear the comment in the following video, but my mother adoringly said to him at the conclusion, “Is THIS really how you want to do it?” We just cracked up at his response. Enjoy.
Now thank we all our God
With heart and hand and voices,
Who wondrous things hath done,
In whom His world rejoices;
Who, from our mother’s arms,
Hath blessed us on our way
With countless gifts of love,
And still is ours today.
Oh, may this bounteous God,
Through all our life, be near us,
Wtih ever joyful hearts
And blessed peace to cheer us;
And keep us in His grace,
And guide us when perplexed,
And free us from all ills
In this world and the next.
All praise and thanks to God
The Father now be given,
The son and Him who reigns
With them in highest heaven,
The one eternal God,
Whom earth and heaven adore;
For this it was, is now,
And shall be evermore.
Martin Rinkart, 1586-1649
Translated by Catherine Winkworth, 1827-1878
When I left the orthopedic’s office for the last time in 2002, it was with a heavy heart. For four weeks my right foot had been encased in a plastic boot to be worn 24 hours a day in the hopes that the swelling and cysts in the ligaments and tissues would subside. According to the orthopedic, the ligaments and possibly the tendon itself had been torn and stretched. Surgery, he said, was the last corrective measure he could take and even then, the chances of getting back to normal were slim. There was even a possibility of the ankle becoming worse.
Four weeks in the boot had brought down the swelling, but I was still in a great deal of pain. The atrophied muscles in my foot ached with only a little exertion, and I had shooting pains between my shoulder blades – consequences of walking in the boot for over a month. I thought surgery wasn’t an option because the thought of aggravating my condition was frightening. I couldn’t imagine it being worse than what it was then. Better to walk in perpetual pain than to run the risk of being further maimed.
My parents put me in with a chiropractor to help alleviate the pain in my back. Secretly, I cherished an inner hope that all would be well – after all, I had read so many “miracle stories” about people who had life-long pain completely cured. By January, 2003 it was clear to me that not even chiropractic treatment was going to completely fix my problem. My back was recovering nicely, but my foot continued to ache. I couldn’t walk well, much less run, and my ankle was continually giving way, causing several nasty spills. Worst of all, I discovered that horseback riding made the problem significantly worse.
By the end of it all, I was becoming angry and bitter. It was obvious to me now that my childhood dream of owning a horse was going to remain just that – a dream. I couldn’t walk long distances – thirty minutes on the road left me hobbling. Consequently, I stayed indoors more and more, shutting myself off from the outside world I loved so much. Instead of enjoying the beauty of the country around me, gazing at the clouds, observing wildflowers, horseback riding, biking long distances, hiking and the like, I found myself staring at piles of laundry, sinkfulls of dishes, and hours of housecleaning. In a matter of months, my life had turned completely upside down.
Looking back now at that irritated, confused seventeen-year-old, I tend to shake my head in a bemused fashion. I don’t really think I’m any wiser now than I was then, but I have to laugh when I remember how stubborn I was. And since I’m still very stubborn, it makes me wonder what I’m missing now. I know what I was missing then. The last thing I wanted as a young girl was to be a house keeper. That didn’t mean that I was adverse to the idea of having a family, but the idea of filling my daylight hours with sewing, cooking, cleaning and like things was a bit too much. Horses were an idol in my life – I thought upon them exclusively. So now I have some measure of understanding why God entered this trial into my life. He saved me from ruining myself and bringing grief to my parents. The very nature of my injury caused me to look at what I disliked most and accept it.
Over the next several years, I adjusted to the way my life was going. The thought of being a wife and homemaker someday wasn’t so bad, I slowly allowed myself to become more feminine, and even learned to cook and sew. Horses were enjoyed from afar, mostly from pencil and paper. I still walked in pain, but it was something I could live with. Until last summer. I was walking on a Friday morning in July, enjoying the beautiful play of clouds in the sky, when my ankle suddenly gave out and I found myself hurtling towards the asphalt. I compensated quickly, as I had learned over the past few years, and caught myself before I smashed my face. I was shocked. My ankle hadn’t given me any indication that something was wrong – no tingling, aches, or pains. It was highly unusual. I stood back up, dusted myself off and continued walking. By that night, my ankle was throbbing and it was six weeks before I would really walk again.
My mother did a considerable amount of research over the winter, and, to make a long story short, found out that perhaps there was something we could do after all. All the symptoms pointed to a repeatedly injured tendon at the junction of the ankle. In January of this year my sister fractured her foot and ended up at a foot and ankle surgeon. While there, my mother discussed the possibility of repairing my ankle, and the doctor said it was not just possible, but probable to repair it. In fact, he said to my mother that he was confident that the pain could be eliminated and then possibly I would even be able to walk well if the right surgery was done.
I decided to try it. By this time, I was in so much pain that I had some incentive. My parents and I had a growing concern that the next fall I would take would injure something else like a hip and put me in a multiple injury situation. Even if I never walked the same again, wouldn’t it be worth it just to make it through the week without the constant ache and the fear of falling? We prayed about it and on July 10th I went into surgery.
Initially the physician we used said he did not expect any surprises in surgery, but I guess I had “one up my sleeve,” or I guess in this situaiton I could say, “one up my sock.” During the surgery, the doctor found that the ligament was far worse than even he had anticipated. It was so frayed and stretched that he said to my parents during post-op that if I had done anything more to it, even a mild sprain, it would have been impossible to repair as an individual tissue unit of itself. As it was, the doctor had to insert a titanium screw into the outer ankle bone. This screw had needle and suturing thread secured in it and then my frayed ligament was sewn to the screw. I get to keep this screw for life and the only downside of having it is that it won’t set off the security alarms at the airport like I had hoped.
I spent the first few days in the trailer. My entire lower leg had to be elevated and it was encased in a firm splint and wrapped around with two ace bandages. Except for when the doctor needed to check on the stitches, my leg remained this way for two weeks. There was some sort of surgical cleanser on my foot that smelled terrible and, yes, the whole thing itched. Even chigger bites don’t itch that bad. Fortunately, one of my sisters has a good supply of knitting needles.
My grandparents sent several good books to keep me occupied during my recovery - ones that I had wanted for a long time. Several families sent flowers that Mom placed on a nearby table so I could see them. Now I understand why flowers are given to people who are suffering physically - they really are beautiful to behold and cheerful.
There was a mixed bonquet from the Smith family. Mrs. Smith also sent us a wonderful, delicious meal that was one of the few things I kept down during the first week. Mrs. Kizziar also sent a wonderful picnic type meal and helpful items for my family.
Sunflowers from the Wahlquist’s garden…
Roses from the Hulslanders. I dried these and placed the petals in an old lantern that’s now sitting on my nightstand. They also brought a delicious meal for us.
The anesthetic didn’t bother me, but the pain medication did. Not only do I remember almost nothing of the first five days, but I ended up getting terribly sick, so much so that I told Mom I would rather endure the pain in my leg than have to continually… well, I won’t describe it. It was two weeks before my stomach really settled from that. The memory loss was, well I can’t remember! After I came out of the fog, my siblings took great delight in informing me of all the strange things I had done while on the medication. Rather embarassing, but at least only my family had to witness it. One of the things I found out is that my mother slept very little the entire time as she was caring for me through those nights and then caring for everyone during the day. I don’t remember needing help every half hour or so in the night time, but she was there for me when I was spaced out on the pain medication. The domino effect on our household meant my dad took extra vacation time to help us all. This is all a blur to me. I’m one of those people who don’t like to be a burden to others so maybe it’s a good thing it is a blur.
Two weeks after the surgery, the doctor removed the stitches and I went into a walking boot. He left the tape over the incision in place to keep the skin from moving too much. Those purple lines are where he drew on my foot before the surgery so he would know where to cut. The stitches themselves (I didn’t get a picture of them) were bright blue. My mother saw the stitches at the one week mark and remarked to me, “Now that should keep you in stitches for a while!”
Here’s a close up. That blood you see there is left over from right after the surgery. At this point, the skin was already closed.
This picture was taken after the tape was removed (about four weeks after the surgery) and the same day that I began walking without crutches (boy, was that ever a relief!). I had also been crawling around on the carpet and my knees were raw.
Walking was understandably difficult after putting no weight on my foot for five odd weeks. I thought it would be hard for my foot to remain steady with my weight pressing down on it, but such was not the case. It was steady, even more so than my left foot. What was different was the amount of stiffness and the fact that a great deal of blood had pooled in the veins on the underside of the foot. Every time I put pressure on the foot, it was the same sensation as when one’s foot falls asleep from lack of blood, only much stronger because my weight was forcing all that extra blood very quickly out of the veins. For days, I felt like I was walking on pins and needles.
Soon the pins and needles subsided, but the stiffness did not. The doctor recommended that I literally “write” the entire alphabet with my foot. The first time I tried it, I almost went through the ceiling, the ligaments hurt so bad. My mother has quite a sense of humor. After enduring the first set of alphabet letters, she poked her head into the living room and quipped to me, “How about lower case now?” I just looked at her. She added in a whisper, “Another font?” With time, the exercises became easier. Even so, I still wasn’t walking comfortably. It was ironic that now my ankle was too stiff to move whereas before it was too mobile. The doctor recommended physical therapy.
Well, physical therapy was something I had never experienced before and I had little idea what to expect. The physical therapist was a lovely Indian woman named Nayna, and in two weeks she did amazing things with my ankle. She had me bicycling (indoors of course) upt to two miles each visit, balancing boards, something called total gym, and special foot exercises. Nanya told me that the muscles were very strong (that surprised me) but that the ligament was stiff because it had been remodelled. Thanks to over a month in physical therapy, it’s certainly not stiff now!
As you can see, the scar has healed beautifully. It will remain purple for a few years, but should eventually turn white and fade.
This past week, the doctor finally released me from treatment. I have to wear a brace until Christmas time and keep up with my exercises, but I’m over the worst of it. And the best part of it is, I am finally walking without pain for the first time in six years. I’m not afraid of falling. The prediction is that it will take me a full year to have the full percentage of restoration that I should have. Right now my goal is to walk our street, which I have not done at this point (but hope too soon!). The next goal is to walk the zoo. After that, well… they do say it’s best to get back on the horse after you’ve fallen off. 
This post is really written for my benefit and not anyone else, as I wanted to journal the events of the past few months. There are some things I am thankful for, and I would like to list those things here.
I am thankful that God used this affliction for good because it has helped me focus on what God wants me to do in my life. If I hadn’t been limited by pain, I would have certainly walked down a path that I would have eventually regreted.
I am thankful for the many hours off my feet, August of 2007 and July through September 2008, as these were times set aside to work on the hymnal project for my father. I am thankful that I had something productive to do that would please my dad and I am thankful for the time to do it. Not to mention that simply reading the hymns as I’ve typed them into the computer has deepened my appreciation for those Christians who have gone on before. I have also learned a lot about music.
I am also grateful for the support of my family during my convalesence. I couldn’t have done it (or anything else, for that matter) without them.
Walk in the light! and you shall know
That fellowship of love
His Spirit only can bestow
Who reigns in light above.
Walk in the light! and you shall find
Your heart made truely His,
Who dwells in cloudless light enshrined,
In whom no darkness is.
Walk in the light! and you shall see
Your darkness pass away,
Because the Light has come to be
In which is perfect day.
Walk in the light! and you shall share
Your path, though thorny, bright;
For God in grace walks with you there,
And God Himself is light.
Bernard Barton, 1784-1849
I have observed that most women are afraid of snakes. Mention the word in a roomful of women and one is immediately assaulted with glares and rather forceful declarations of hatred towards all members of the species. I guess I shouldn’t be included in the class of most women. I have never been afraid of snakes. I actually like snakes and have enjoyed reading about their fascinating differences from other animals. They have no legs, hear with their bodies, smell with their tongues, see heat like we see light. Their scales come in the most extraordinary colors and patterns. They possess a beauty both alien and sensual. Contrary to popular myth, snakes are rarely aggressive and only bite if they sense they have no way of escape. I’ve never quite understood why snakes are lumped in with things demonic (unless it’s from a Biblical perspective) - to my mind, wasps look more like demons than snakes do.
My mother is as terrified over snakes as I am about wasps. Not even understanding their behaviour seems to abate her fear. I have a similar problem. No amount of reading about wasps, bees and hornets has allayed my fears of them, even though I know a lot about how they live, why they function the way they do, and how important they are to the natural world. Sometimes, fear is so strong that no amount of logic can relieve it.
I’m known for being a bit reckless when it comes to nature. I won’t repeat some of the things I’ve done but suffice it to say, that most things I’ve encountered in the great outdoors haven’t scared me a bit. Including snakes. I’ve handled snakes before from tiny babies to full grown adults. I’ve even caught a few and disposed (but not killed) of them. I remember once trying to capture a “menacing” garter snake in the front yard with my sprained ankle encased in one of those dreadful walking boots with my very pregnant mother close to hysterics in the house. Even today, memories of that bring a smile to my face. My most deadly encounter was when I nearly stepped on a copperhead while fishing in Arkansas. For a moment, I stood stock still as I watched the beautifully patterned creature eye me, than slip away between the rocks. Once it was gone, I cautiously picked my way over the rocks to get another lure for my rod. No big deal. I have never been afraid of snakes, and never quite understood my mother’s fear of them.
Until yesterday.
I was resting in my room when I heard swift footsteps outside my door. Mom burst in and I could tell instantly that something was very wrong. She had that look in her eyes. Breathless, she informed me that Dad had caught a snake - a BIG snake - and she wanted me to photograph it so we could identify the species. When she told me that Dad was certain it was a cottonmouth, I wasted no time snatching my camera and rushing outdoors. By this time, Dad had placed the snake in an empty garbage can. Needless to say, it wasn’t very happy.
The snake was beautiful, sinuous, and powerful. High and slippery as the sides of the garbage can were, it was still able to lunge almost halfway up, hissing angrily at the curious faces peering down upon it. This excited the amateur scientist in me. I was in my element as I photographed away. Dad even had me take some movie clips so we could better identify the snake (to view them, click here.). It turned out to be a cottonmouth.
Over supper, I enquired as to how the snake was found in the first place. In the midst of all the hubbub, I had yet to hear that story. Apparently, my cat had come across it first, and then the dog caught wind of it. When Joy started barking, Kathy walked out to see what in the world was wrong. She encountered Cloud slinking fearfully away while Joy was viciously attacking something in the bushes. Something that was moving swiftly back and forth. Something that was hissing. Something that was releasing a spine-tingling scent that hung heavy in the air. Matthew thought it was a skunk, but Kathy realized that no skunk would be moving that quickly, nor would’ve waited so long before spraying. Time for our knight in shining armor to handle the situation. Dad dragged our Boxer away from the scene and fetched a net. Somehow, he managed to draw the snake away from the bushes and drop it into the bucket. To his consternation, he found that the snake was more than capable of lunging all the way up the sides of the bucket, so Dad decided to dump it in the empty garbage can. Not long afterwards, Mom came and got me.
Later, as I watched the sunset from a window, I began thinking through everything that happened. I was amazed that no one had gotten hurt, not even Joy, who had defended us so courageously. Not every dog will face a snake, much less a venomous one, for their family. And if Dad hadn’t been home, I don’t know what we would’ve done. I’ve caught snakes before, but they were all non-venomous, and all but one weren’t very aggressive when cornered. Cottonmouths are different. Even if I had been wearing boots to the knee, I still would’ve been in danger trying to catch it. These snakes can lunge so forcefully that their entire bodies come off the ground, and I would’ve risked being bitten in the thigh or worse.
I was grateful, intensely grateful, that we had a dog who would protect the family from danger, and that Dad had been home to take care of the snake. What if Joy had been bitten, or worse yet, what if one of the children had accidentally stepped on the snake? I knew from all the books I’ve read what would’ve happened. Depending on where one was bitten, and how much venom was injected, the results would be evident within a matter of minutes. The punctured site would swell, ecchymosis would set in as blood began leaking to the surrounding tissues. Necrosis would become a certain danger as muscle tissues began to die throughout the body. Side effects would be panic, nausea, fainting, and a cold clammy skin. Left untreated, the victim would die a horrible, painful death. The thought of one of my little sisters going through that was too much and I felt anger mixed with fear rising into the cold pit of my stomach. My siblings could’ve been bitten at any time, and I would’ve been helpless to protect them. It was no illusion, this danger we had just faced. It was real, real as the glowing colors in the sunset I was watching, real as the gentle whisper of the wind that normally would’ve soothed me. There had been a terrible danger here, and it was as real as all the wonderful things that I loved about nature.
Suddenly, I understood why my mother is afraid of snakes. I understood all too well.
Over the next month, I will be seeing the world from a different perspective since I am allowed to bear no weight on my right foot. On July 10th, my foot met up with a surgeon who set a titanium screw into my outer ankle bone and then sutured my stretched ligament to it. Yesterday, my parents and I had the privilege of seeing the actual incision. which was larger than we had expected. My mother said it is enough to keep me in stitches for a while. Thanks to my Dad for taking such good care of me.
