Smiling Irish




	WRITE 2 THE HEART Stories that are aimed "Write 2 the Heart" January 23, 2003 Cheryl Speir, Editor, moderator@write2theheart.com ----------------------------------------------------------- Welcome to your latest issue of "Write 2 the Heart" You are receiving this newsletter because you requested a subscription or a friend generously forwarded their copy to you. To subscribe send a blank e-mail to subscribe@write2theheart.com. ------------------------------------------------------------ Bob always writes such peaceful, nostalgic stories. You always feel you are taking a trip down Memory Lane when you read his stories. ------------------------------------------------------------ The Smiling Irish By Bob Shaw ------------------------------------------------------------ Every once in a while, 'Ol Jack, the family's Irish Setter, would take a notion to leave the farm and go visiting. Dad was raised on a farm about twenty miles away. His Grand- parents actually owned Jack, but, as usually happens, a dog will choose his master, not the other way around. My Great Grandma and Grampa would hitch up the horse and buggy and go for a visit, taking Jack along with them. He made the trip several times, some of them on his own, and had made several friends along the way. Great Grandma enjoyed telling about the first wooden bridge in the area. When it was first built, they crossed it several times just to enjoy the oddity of it, and not having to ford the stream. Every one along the way got to know Jack, and would put out a pan of water and a bit of food to help him along, then sent him on his way with a smile and a wave. There were many adventures enjoyed by the two youngsters as they grew up together. Everything from hunting and fishing to just laying in an open field watching the clouds roll by. Jack finally decided to stay at the farm with Dad. The long trips were just to much for him, and for the next several years, he lived a happy life there, with the people he loved. Years later, after I came on to the scene, Grampa came home With a new puppy, an Irish Setter. To honor an old memory, he named her Jackie. She was quite the lady, bringing a touch of class to the small farm. Jackie had one litter of puppies, and one of those was named Brandy. She was mine with a love at first site. Brandy was a natural hunter and was my Uncles' favorite bird dog. I had only taken her hunting a time or two, not really being into the hunting thing. The last time out, she jumped a covey of quail. When I took the shot, it was a clean miss. When I saw the dirty look I got, it was almost like she was scolding me for the bad shot, and I started laughing. The next covey we jumped, I just yelled BOOM! She stared at me with a look of surprise, I started laughing, and we started playing. From then on, every time I yelled BOOM, she started barking, I suppose trying to imitate me. She'd use her front paw like a hand, trying to trip me, and I'd roll her over in the leaves, wrestling. We came home tired, dirty, and empty handed, but we had a ball. I'll never forget Uncle Goober, taking her hunting the following week, and coming home "very" early. I never did find out what happened, and I don't really think I want to know. It wasn't long after this that she got out on the road. She was hit and rolled pretty bad. It was in her later years that these injuries developed Arthritis. As I approach my own autumn years, I can appreciate her efforts to greet me after a long hard day. I can still see her waiting at the door, eyes sparkling, an almost human smile on her face, and a nervous quiver, waiting. Ladylike, as ever, she'd never jump and leave paw prints on clothing. She'd wait for her soft word, gentle touch, and give an embrace that would almost melt in to you. She was with me for almost thirteen years. The Vet said it was Pneumonia. He prescribed medication for it, but expressed reservations. Her age and decreased health were going against her. I remember it was March, and very cold. As her breathing became more and more shallow, I sat on the floor, holding her. Her last breath came peacefully. Then she was gone. I'm a believer in a place called The Rainbow Bridge. It is simply a place just on the other side of this life, where a friend quietly waits. There's a sparkle in her eyes, an almost human smile, and a nervous quiver. I believe that one day, with a soft word, a gentle touch, and a treasured embrace, we'll go Home, together. Bob Shaw Caperabbit @ SEMO.Net (You are encouraged to write to the authors to let them know what you think of their story, just remember to remove the space before and after the @ symbol. The space is placed in the address to protect our writers from viruses and email harvesting programs. Have a comment on today's story? Send it to: moderator@write2theheart.com) ---------------------------------------------------------------- Bob and wife Ronni live in Cape Girardeau Missouri. They'd love hearing from you. -------------------------------------------------------------- Alison Peter's is starting an online Christian writers' club, Arise 'n' Shine, with the idea of brain-storming and critiquing each other's work periodically. You may want to consider joining if you are looking for feedback about your writing from other Christian writers. To find out more and to receive the club's mission statement send email to <arisenshine3 @ cs.com> -------------------------------------------------------------- Letters From Our Readers -------------------------------------------------------------- What a good illustration of the voice of God. Yes, I've heard Him speak to me like that, too. I wish I could explain it as well as Betty King does. It is unmistakable when one hears Him though. Many people think I'm bragging or crazy for saying I "hear God speaking to me." I try to be very careful when I mention it and pay attention to whom I tell about it. Some things are not meant to be shared. ("Mary pondered them in her heart.") Nancee ***** Though I believe strongly in tithing, I am not a regular member of an established church. Sometimes my tithing builds up until I fear if I don't give it to one church or another, I will spend it, and to me, that's a bad idea. So, I will send it off not knowing what the money will be used for except that, presumably, it will be for God's work in one form or another. After reading Betty King's story, I now know there are options. It opens up whole new possibilities that never crossed my mind, of where and to whom I can give my tithing and know that it will be used for the betterment of a fellow human being. There are food banks and homeless shelters all over the place that, I'm certain, would not turn down a donation of any size. Great story with a great message. Thank you. Pete Hall --------------------------------------------------------------- Military Prayer Reminder As you read over this list of names, please pray for these young people and their families: Chris Speir, Tim Speir, Jason, Howard, Alan and Thaddeaus. If you have loved ones in the military, or who are being called to go overseas, send their names (first and last or first only) to be included in our prayer reminder. --------------------------------------------------------------- Cheryl's Corner I woke up very early Tuesday morning and turned on the TV. There was a well known young lady just starting stretching exercises. I thought I would do them along with her. As I marched in time with her, my pajama bottoms kept slipping down and entangling my feet causing me to trip on the silky fabric. I just stepped out of those things. My top is extremely long and would protect my modesty. I felt great the rest of the day. Wednesday morning was another matter. I woke up so sore I could hardly move. But, guess what? I'm going to do it again, and I will not be wearing long, red satin pajamas. God Bless, Cheryl ----------------------------------------------------------------- ----------------------------------------------------------------- © 2002 Write 2 the Heart Nothing may be reproduced or published without the written permission of the individual author or copyright owner. All rights belong to the authors.