|
~The Dash Between The
Years~
I read of a
man who stood to speak
At the funeral of a friend.
He referred to the dates on his tombstone
From the beginning ... to the end.
He noted that first came his date of birth
And spoke the following date with tears,
But he said what mattered most of all
Was the "dash" between those years. (1926-2001)
For that
"dash" represents all the time
That he spent alive on earth
And only those who loved him
Know what that little line is worth.
For it matters not, how much we own;
The cars...the house...the cash,
What matters is how we live and love
And how we spend our "dash".
So think about
this long and hard
Are there things you'd like to change?
For you never know how much time is left,
That can still be rearranged.
If we could just slow down enough
To consider what's true and real,
And always try to understand
The way other people feel.
And be less
quick to anger,
And show our appreciation more
And love the people in our lives
Like we've never loved before
If we treat each other with respect,
And more often wear a smile
Remembering that this special dash
Might only last a little while.
So, when your
eulogy's being read
With your life's actions to rehash
Would you be proud of the things they say
About how you spent your "dash"?
~The Dash ©
1999 by Linda Ellis~
"Watch out! You nearly broad
sided that car!" My father yelled at me.
"Can't you do anything right?"
Those words hurt worse than
blows. I turned my head toward the elderly man
in the seat beside me, daring me
to challenge him. A lump rose in my throat
as I averted my eyes. I wasn't
prepared for another battle.
"I saw the car, Dad. Please
don't yell at me when I'm driving." My voice was
measured and steady, sounding
far calmer than I really felt.
Dad glared at me, then turned
away and settled back. At home I left Dad in
front of the television and went
outside to collect my thoughts. Dark, heavy
clouds hung in the air with a
promise of rain. The rumble of distant thunder
seemed to echo my inner turmoil.
What could I do about him?
Dad had been a lumberjack in
Washington and Oregon. He had enjoyed being
outdoors and had reveled in
pitting his strength against the forces of
nature. He had entered grueling
lumberjack competitions, and had placed
often. The shelves in his house
were filled with trophies that attested to
The years marched on
relentlessly. The first time he couldn't lift a heavy
log, he joked about it; but
later that same day I saw him outside alone,
straining to lift it. He became
irritable whenever anyone teased him about
his advancing age, or when he
couldn't do something he had done as a younger
Four days after his
sixty-seventh birthday, he had a heart attack. An
ambulance sped him to the
hospital while a paramedic administered CPR to
keep blood and oxygen flowing.
At the hospital, Dad was rushed into an
operating room. He was lucky; he
survived.
But something inside Dad died.
His zest for life was gone. He obstinately
refused to follow doctor's
orders. Suggestions and offers of help were
turned aside wit h sarcasm and
insults. The number of visitors thinned, then
finally stopped altogether. Dad
was left alone.
My husband, Dick, and I asked
Dad to come live with us on our small farm. We
hoped the fresh air and rustic
atmosphere would help him adjust. Within a
week after he moved in, I
regretted the invitation. It seemed nothing was
satisfactory. He criticized
everything I did. I became frustrated and moody.
Soon I was taking my pent-up
anger out on Dick. We began to bicker and
argue. Alarmed, Dick sought out
our pastor and explained the situation. The
clergyman set up weekly
counseling appointments for us. At the close of each
session he prayed, asking God to
soothe Dad's troubled mind. But the months
wore on and God was silent.
Something had to be done and it was up to me to
The next day I sat down with the
phone book and methodically called each of
the mental health clinics listed
in the Yellow Pages. I explained my problem
to each of the sympathetic
voices that answered. In vain. Just when I was
giving up hope, one of the
voices suddenly exclaimed, "I just read something
that might help you! Let me go
get the article." I listened as she read. The
article described a remarkable
study done at a nursing home. All of the
patients were under treatment
for chronic depression. Yet their attitudes
had improved dramatically when
they were given responsibility for a dog.
I drove to the animal shelter
that afternoon. After I filled out a
questionnaire, a uniformed
officer led me to the kennels. The odor of
disinfectant stung my nostrils
as I moved down the row of pens. Each
contained five to seven dogs.
Long-haired dogs, curly-haired dogs, black
dogs, spotted dogs all jumped
up, trying to reach me. I studied each one but
rejected one after the other for
various reasons too big, too small, too
much hair. As I neared the last
pen a dog in the shadows of the far corner
struggled to his feet, walked to
the front of the run and sat down. It was a
pointer, one of the dog world's
aristocrats. But this was a caricature of
the breed. Years had etched his
face and muzzle with shades of gray. His
hipbones jutted out in lopsided
triangles. But it was his eyes that caught
and held my attention. Calm and
clear, they beheld me unwaveringly.
I pointed to the dog. "Can you
tell me about him?" The officer looked, then
shook his head in puzzlement.
"He's a funny one. Appeared out
of nowhere and sat in front of the gate. We
brought him in, figuring someone
would be right down to claim him. That was
two weeks ago and we've heard
nothing. His time is up tomorrow." He gestured
As the words sank in I turned to
the man in horror. "You mean you're going
"Ma'am," he said gently, "that's
our policy. We don't have room for every
I looked at the pointer again.
The calm brown eyes awaited my decision.
I drove home with the dog on the
front seat beside me. When I reached the
house I honked the horn twice. I
was helping my prize out of the car when
Dad shuffled onto the front
porch.
"Ta-da! Look what I got for you,
Dad!" I said excitedly.
Dad looked, then wrinkled his
face in disgust. "If I had wanted a dog I
would have gotten one. And I
would have picked out a better specimen than
that bag of bones. Keep it! I
don't want it" Dad waved his arm scornfully
and turned back toward the
house.
Anger rose inside me. It
squeezed together my throat muscles and pounded
"You'd better get used to him,
Dad. He's staying!" Dad ignored me. "Did you
hear me, Dad?" I screamed. At
those words Dad whirled angrily, his hands
clenched at his sides, his eyes
narrowed and blazing with hate.
We stood glaring at each other
like duelists, when suddenly the pointer
pulled free from my grasp. He
wobbled toward my dad and sat down in front of
him. Then slowly, carefully, he
raised his paw.
Dad's lower jaw trembled as he
stared at the uplifted paw. Confusion
replaced the anger in his eyes.
The pointer waited patiently. Then Dad was
on his knees hugging the animal.
It was the beginning of a warm
and intimate friendship. Dad named the
pointer Cheyenne. Together he
and Cheyenne explored the community. They
spent long hours walking down
dusty lanes. They spent reflective moments on
the banks of streams, angling
for tasty trout. They even started to attend
Sunday services together, Dad
sitting in a pew and Cheyenne lying quietly at
Dad and Cheyenne were
inseparable throughout the next three years. Dad's
bitterness faded, and he and
Cheyenne made many friends. Then late one night
I was startled to feel
Cheyenne's cold nose burrowing through our bed
covers. He had never before come
into our bedroom at night. I woke Dick, put
on my robe and ran into my
father's room. Dad lay in his bed, his face
serene. But his spirit had left
quietl y sometime during the night.
Two days later my shock and
grief deepened when I discovered Cheyenne lying
dead beside Dad's bed. I wrapped
his still form in the rag rug he had slept
on. As Dick and I buried him
near a favorite fishing hole, I silently
thanked the dog for the help he
had given me in restoring Dad's peace of
The morning of Dad's funeral
dawned overcast and dreary. This day looks like
the way I feel, I thought, as I
walked down the aisle to the pews reserved
for family. I was surprised to
see the many friends Dad and Cheyenne had
made filling the church. The
pastor began his eulogy. It was a tribute to
both Dad and the dog who had
changed his life. And then the pastor turned to
Hebrews 13:2. "Be not forgetful
to entertain strangers."
"I've often thanked God for
sending that angel," he said.
For me, the past dropped into
place, completing a puzzle that I had not seen
before: the sympathetic voice
that had just read the right article .
Cheyenne's unexpected appearance
at the animal shelter. .. .his calm
acceptance and complete devotion
to my father. . and the proximity of their
deaths. And suddenly I
understood. I knew that God had answered my prayers
Life is too short for drama &
petty things, so laugh hard, love truly and
Live While You Are Alive.
Tell the people you love that
you love them, at every opportunity.
Forgive now those who made you
cry. You might not get a second time.
|
