tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52863258164627506012024-03-13T22:13:00.350-07:00Writing For the LordChristine Trollingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652227373328487178noreply@blogger.comBlogger71125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5286325816462750601.post-52880382614326989792018-01-05T08:53:00.001-08:002018-01-05T08:53:14.845-08:00My Amazing Mom Chicken Soup For the Soul<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Another story accepted for Chicken Soup for the Soul, Book Title| My Amazing Mom. On Sale March 20th.</span>Christine Trollingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652227373328487178noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5286325816462750601.post-86532917672474626392017-12-11T12:01:00.002-08:002017-12-11T12:01:46.016-08:00The Christmas Doll<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
During the Christmas season of 1958, my family was going through some pretty rough times. It had been a very difficult couple of years for my parents. In 1955, polio had rocked our world, followed by the loss of my fathers business and our family farm.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
In the late summer of 1956, our little family farm, as well as my fathers furniture business, had been sold at auction to pay off my family’s considerable debts. My father had never blinked nor considered the cost, which would be necessary for me to overcome the crippling effects of polio. In order for me to learn to walk once again, my Dad totally neglected the farm and his business. He never left my side throughout all the months of my recuperation. And he never flinched at spending every spare dime we had, to find the medical help available to help me regain my ability to walk again. Unfortunately, this lead to our losing all the temporal things, which we owned, with the exception of the clothes on our back.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Looking back, I can still see my fathers unwavering faith, as we all stood on the grounds of our little farm for the auction to begin. My mother was understandably beside herself. Of course she was worried to death about where we would live and how we would survive, but I was devastated, when she burst into tears and lamented that it was all my fault for getting polio. My dad quickly picked me up into his arms and said: “Margaret, we can always find another job, and another home, but we could never replace our Christy.”</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
And so our journey began. We had always been a farm family nestled in the familiar sand hills of Nebraska. With no money to start over, my dad’s family scraped together the money for us to move to Texas, where a Marine buddy of my fathers, had a furniture store. MR. King had offered my dad the position of manager for his store and a small house for us to live in. After a year in Texas, we moved back home as my mother hated Texas and all it stood for. Mom was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Once again, with the help of family and Mr. King, we scraped up the money to make the journey back home to our roots.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
By the time Christmas rolled around, once again in 1958, it didn’t look like we would have a big celebration that year either. Mom worked scrubbing floors to scrape up extra money for our Christmas dinner. That was one thing my mother missed the most…the Christmas table loaded with all the tradition Christmas foods. No matter what else might come our way, she was determined we would have a wonderful meal to celebrate the birth of the Christ Child.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Even a modest Christmas celebration that year, was almost entirely out of the question. Of course, children never seem to give up their dreams nor understand that Santa can’t always provide the things we want. But I, in my child’s mind, had no doubt that Santa could do anything, no matter how bad things may look. I just knew he would bring me a doll for Christmas. Not just any doll, mind you. He was going to bring me a grown up lady doll, dressed in a formal gown with a tiara and high heels.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
As the weeks of Advent arrived,I sat down and wrote a note to Santa. I had decided that even though he had stopped coming by our house, because we were so poor, maybe, just maybe he would have an extra lady doll which he could drop off for me that year. My note of course explained that it was ok, if he could not bring me a new lady doll, but if he could spare a watch for my sister Peg, a sling shot for my brother Bill and maybe a nice fire truck for my little brother, I would be very happy with that. And most of all, if he couldn’t do that, could he please just leave my mommy a note, and let her know that it would be ok and that God still loved us?</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
That Christmas morning, we all gathered around the tree as usual before Mass. Wonder of wonders, besides our stocking stuffed with oranges and apples, each of us had a gift carefully wrapped and placed beneath the tree. Billy’s gift was a slingshot, Mikey a fire truck, and Peg a watch. And wonder of wonders, I received the most beautiful lady doll I had ever envisioned. The best gift of all was for my Mom. It was a beautiful Christmas card, which exclaimed God loved her and all of us.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; display: inline; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-top: 6px;">
Years later, I would learn that one of the woman my mother worked for, had found my mother in tears one day. Mom, had my note in her hand and was sobbing about the fact, there was no way she could provide the gifts I had requested. Lila wasn’t wealthy either. She and her husband Frank lived in the back of their little shoe shop. Lila took the time to remake and old doll, which had belonged to her daughter. She had lovingly sewed an elegant silk dress out of one of her own dresses. How she managed to find the Tiara, I do not know. But the doll was more beautiful than any in the toy stores that I have ever seen. The slingshot, was one Frank made by hand. Peg’s watch had belonged to Lila, a gift from her first husband who had died in World War II before she married Frank. The fire truck had belonged to Frank’s son when he was a child. Frank had repainted it for Mike. The best gift of all of course, was the beautiful card to my Mom, which assured us of God’s love.</div>
Christine Trollingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652227373328487178noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5286325816462750601.post-59265331006601379682017-11-11T09:19:00.001-08:002017-11-11T09:19:26.502-08:00Veterans Day at the Vietnam Wall<div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed" id="id_5a073088896588240213103" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">
My brother Bill. KIA Vietnam 1967<span> </span><br /><br />As I approach the wall, in the early morning light, the sky is gently showering everything with dew. Here at the break of day's new dawning, I come much like Mary to visit the empty tomb.<span> </span><br /><br />I come not with spices but with my heart wanting to speak to you once again. Today I come to meet with my brother, my friend. I know deep within me that we are still kindred<span> </span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">in spirit, together and yet apart. We have shared the days of our childhood and we have felt the sting of death. Yet, for all of this, nothing can really ever separate us.not even a broken heart.<br /><br />William.my sweet William.how I long to see you once again. Can you hear me? Do you see me as I search for your beloved name? Many years have passed since I last spoke with you and beheld your dear sweet face. Yet it seems like only yesterday that I stood beside your open grave. Brother, teacher, companion and friend,how the memories do ebb and flow. Can you see me? Do you hear me as I search for your beloved name?<br /><br />Suddenly, as though from a lighthouse.a tiny ray of sun seems to point out your beloved name.Billy.dearest brother, I know that you still watch over me. Can you feel the mist that is falling? Do you see how the dew drops look just like teardrops as I caress your beloved name? I counted 16 teardrops falling.one for each letter and character in your name.<br /><br />Do you remember bat-light, butterflies and fishing in the rain? Do you remember how you taught me to fish and then threw them all back into the lake again? You said: "We should never waste God's beauty or abuse the bounty of his land."<br /><br />Do you fish the lakes of heaven, still teaching the little ones? Do you walk the fields with Jesus and. OH! Do you still sing slightly out of tune? Here in the misty morning sunrise.I feel close to you once again. I can almost hear you singing."Halleluiah! To Christ our King!" Best of all, sweet William.it sounds perfectly in tune.<br /><br />William, my sweet William.I shall always love you so. Billy, dearest brother.it is time for me to go. I know now, deep in my heart, that you are well and happy. Now not even 16 teardrops falling can take away my joy for you. "Vaya Con Dios," until we meet again.</span></div>
<span aria-live="polite" class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; display: inline; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; outline: none; width: auto;" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption" style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span><br />
<div class="fbPhotoProductTags" id="fbPhotoSnowliftProductTags" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; display: inline-block; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; width: 327.2px;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-e9PMrM-36B4/WgcxFXD3ACI/AAAAAAAAAeI/dBS5IvvKpWwbyM6ZuPWc5aTGpHePSoBuACLcBGAs/s1600/10150929_979668499571_305428637_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="392" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-e9PMrM-36B4/WgcxFXD3ACI/AAAAAAAAAeI/dBS5IvvKpWwbyM6ZuPWc5aTGpHePSoBuACLcBGAs/s320/10150929_979668499571_305428637_n.jpg" width="209" /></a></div>
<div class="pts fbPhotoProductsTagList" id="fbPhotoSnowliftProductsTagList" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; padding-top: 5px; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
</div>
Christine Trollingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652227373328487178noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5286325816462750601.post-56697611497053251812017-11-01T13:49:00.003-07:002017-11-01T13:49:49.952-07:00Barney and the outlaw<span style="background-color: #f6f7f9; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I was first introduced to Venerable Father Solanus Casey in the mid-1980’s. I bought a book called “Thank God Ahead of Time” written by Michael Crosby. As I read through the book I found I was very much in</span></span><span style="background-color: #f6f7f9; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> awe of this gentle servant of God. I soon came to think of him as my friend Barney. That was his given name before he became Father Solanus Casey OFM.</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Reading about Father Solanus early life I was intrigued that he once was a prison guard in Minnesota. Reading further about this part of his life the book mentioned that he had struck up a friendship with Jim and Cole Younger. The Younger brothers of course were notorious outlaws. They were members of the notorious “James Gang” from Kearney, Mo. Both of the Younger brothers became prisoners in the Stillwell, MN prison where Barney was a prison guard. Jessie James eluded capture and met his demise in St Joseph Missouri trying to hide from his past.</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">I lived in the very town where Cole Younger moved to after his release from prison. As I read further I was startled that Michael Crosby had written something to the effect, “No one could ever understand this life long friendship that Father Solanus developed with common thieves and murders like the Younger brothers.” That really got my attention and interest. </span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Cole Younger is buried in our cemetery and our town had always celebrated our famous citizen each summer with “Cole Younger Days”. We did not celebrate his notoriety as an outlaw and murderer. We celebrated the good that Cole did in our little Missouri town until the day he died. In our little town of Lees Summit, Missouri Cole Younger was known as “Uncle Cole” to young and old alike. </span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">I read and re-read that part of the book several times. As I thought about it I decided perhaps the rest of the world needed to know more about Cole’s life after prison and the fact he became a model citizen and a mentor for the youth in our town until his death in the early 1900’s. I felt certain that Barney Casey knew that Cole, although notorious for evil, had the grace of God in him. He repented of his youthful life of crime and spent the rest of his days trying to keep other youngsters on the straight and narrow. Cole became one of the leading men of the “Youth for Christ” movement in the early 1900’s. Maybe Father Solanus had been a remarkable influence in Cole’s life, which the world did not know about was my thought at the time.</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">I soon made a call to the guild and a very sweet lady named Leona Garrity answered the call. After speaking briefly to Leona she advised me to speak to Brother Leo Wollenweber to see if he might be interested in more information about Cole Younger. As I spoke with Brother Leo, I explained about the connection of Cole with our town and his conversion to Christ after he left prison. Brother Leo suggested I research it some more and see if we could find any historical information, which might be of help. Thus began my first adventure and experience with Father Solanus intercession. </span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Going to the library I discovered a few old microfilm news articles which gave scant information on Cole. The articles made mention of his stint in Wild West Shows all over the country, of his service to the community, his work with young delinquents, etc. but little else. As I made calls and inquiries I discovered that most of the recorded records of interest on Cole had been stolen from the library several years before. The only thing I found that might help was a reference to a book, which Cole wrote later in life. It was a self-biographical book listed in the Library of Congress. Our library copy was stolen with the other artifacts so they did not have it. From there I made calls all over the country to the Library of Congress, out of print booksellers and libraries trying to locate the book. Everyone told me the same thing. Yes, Cole had written a book but it had been out of print for more than half a century. There were no copies still in existence as far as anyone knew. </span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">After much effort and little hope for success, I finally began to speak to Father Solanus about this particular problem in prayer. My prayer was pretty simple and direct. I just said: “Well, Barney looks like we cannot vindicate your friend Cole. Unless I find a copy of the book I am at a dead end.” </span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">A few days after this less than confident prayer I decided to give it one last try. I took the afternoon off from work and drove to Kearney MO to visit the “James Farm Museum.” When I entered the gift shop and museum I was beginning to feel pretty foolish. I browsed through the Museum and actually felt pretty sickened by the memorabilia glorifying the life of the notorious “James Gang.” The main thing I noticed was there was little to no mention of the Younger brothers. I decided I was just wasting my time trying to find the book here. A book written by a former gang member lamenting his life of crime with the “James Gang” was hardly gong to show up in this museum dedicated to glorifying the life and crimes of one such as “Jessie James.”</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">As I turned to leave and go back out through the gift shop, some small nudging thought made me hesitate. I decided I should at least speak to the manager of the museum and inquire about the book after such a long day’s trip to get there. I found her in the gift shop and asked her if she knew where I could find a copy of Cole’s Biography. The woman just shook her head and said:” No, I have never heard of it. We don’t have anything on the Younger brothers here.” As she finished her sentence, another worker came out of the back room with a very puzzled look on her face. She came over to the manager and said: “I was just unpacking the box of gift items we ordered and found this strange book in the box. I called the supplier and they have never heard of it. It’s not on our order manifest. They said it’s not theirs so what should I do with it?” The manager took the book and let out a bit of a gasp! There in her hands she held the very book I had been inquiring about. They were both so awed by my tale of Father Solanus they gladly let me purchase it for the princely sum of $7.00. Today that little book is in the possession of the Father Solanus Guild. </span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Minor miracle perhaps, but to me it was the beginning of a friendship, which I treasure. My friendship with Solanus and his marvelous Irish sense of humor. Today I think Father Solanus smiles down as he looks over the new center which everyone worked so hard to build. I think that little area, which relates the prison cell and his friendship with Cole, must make him smile. From this little adventure I have learned to “Thank God Ahead of Time.” Barney looks after his friends</span></span></span>Christine Trollingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652227373328487178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5286325816462750601.post-55431752495176416672017-11-01T13:48:00.002-07:002017-11-01T13:48:46.747-07:00The Park Bench<span style="background-color: #f6f7f9; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I am sure that anyone who has ever needed desperately to sell a house can relate to how hectic and exasperating an experience it can be. During the summer of 1989, we had been in just such a predicament. My husband was very ill and we w</span></span><span style="background-color: #f6f7f9; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">ere financially strapped to the hilt.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">I had asked Venerable Father Solanus Casey to intercede to help us sell our house and find an affordable home we could rent when ours sold.</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">One of the lovely things I have always appreciated about Father Solanus, was his rich Irish sense of humor. Being Irish myself, it certainly kept me amused as each new obstacle came into the mix that summer. At each new challenge, some amusing thing would happen to solve the problem. And it was always as a result of a direct prayer to Venerable Father Solanus. When the A/C broke, and we had no money to fix it, Father Solanus promptly came through. A bolt of lightening struck it one night and melted it. The insurance company paid for a brand new one. From then on, I grew to expect an answer with an impish Irish twist to it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Whenever our friends would ask,”Where will you move to?” I would reply with a smile…”Knowing Solanus, it will be a Park bench, but it will be a nice one.”</span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">By mid August our contract with our realtor was running out. My faith was getting a bit shaky by then. On August 14th, I exclaimed to Father Solanus in my nightly prayer…”Times running out. You better ask Our Lady to intercede, because Gods not listening to you. “</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Early the next morning…on the feast of “The Assumption,” we received an offer and sold the house. It was such a good offer that, we only had 30 days to find a rental house and move. In the weeks that followed we were having no luck finding a place we could afford. On September 5th, I said one more prayer to Solanus. I simply said…”Solanus, we are indeed going to end up on a park bench if you don’t do something quick. Within 30 minutes the phone rang. The man on the phone said he had received my call on his answering machine, but he exclaimed he was very puzzled. He said he didn’t have an ad in the paper. He had just decided to rent his new town home that very day instead of selling it, so he had no idea where I got his number. In the end, Father Solanus once again came through in our need. The house closed and we were able to move on schedule. And the icing on the cake was that the home was on ‘Park Drive.” Solanus I know punctuated his answer with his Irish sense of humor once more. WE lived on that Park bench quite comfortably for the next seven years.</span></span></span>Christine Trollingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652227373328487178noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5286325816462750601.post-73969083906472553992016-10-28T09:02:00.002-07:002016-10-28T09:02:32.800-07:00Let the Children come to me
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">On a
bright summer’s day a few years ago, I arrived at my friend Elaine’s garage
sale to help her out with the crowd who usually turn out to garage sales in her
neighborhood. She said it would take several volunteers as she had accumulated
a lot of items in the last thirty years of her husband Marcus’s running a
Christian Book and Gift store. She was trying to raise some money to keep the
business going and pay for an additional employee since her husband Marcus was
very ill and unable to work. Marcus was the backbone of the store as Elaine had
another job and wasn’t at the store except on Saturdays. We all gathered in a
prayer circle in the living room and joined hands before we opened the garage
for the sale. We asked God to bless the sale with enough money to keep the
business going until Marcus could return to work and of course send his angels
to watch over us all during the sale. We knew it was going to be hectic, but
never could we dreamed just how hectic it would become. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Even
though she had warned me there was a lot to sell, I was shocked at the sight of
her three car garage which was completely packed from front to back with tables
loaded down with items. It was such a tight fit we could not walk between the
tables and closing and opening the garage doors was almost impossible. To add
to the problem, the safety mechanism on her garage door opener was broken, so
the door was a bit dangerous and would not stop if an item came in contact with
it. It had to completely close and you had to hit the button again to get it
back open. This would prove to be a danger beyond our imagining. In order to
make it possible for people to shop, we had to move several tables out on the driveway
and the lawn. And of course move the tables back in at the end of the day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">One
of the volunteers was a neighbor of Elaine’s, who brought her two year old
little girl Marcie with her. Marcie was a rather shy child and would not come
to anyone. She clung to her mommy all day long and was pretty fussy. I tried
several times to get Marcie interested in some of the toys we had at the sale,
but she was not at all interested. It became quite a problem for her mother,
but she valiantly tried to help even though she had her hands full with
Marcie’s constant demands. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">As I
was showing a garden statue of Christ to a prospective buyer, Marcie came
running over to us and hugged the statue and began babbling and giggling. It
was the first time all day long that she had done anything but cry and fuss.
The statue was pretty battered up from years of being in Marcus and Elaine’s
storage room, but Marcie seem to love it and spent the rest of the afternoon
talking to it as though it were her best friend. We all got quite a giggle out
of Marcie and her new found plaster friend which we deemed the best cure we had
ever witnessed for the “Terrible Twos” stage of childhood. It certainly made
the rest of the sale much easier since she now was entertaining herself and became
content to let her Mother work undisturbed by crying fits. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">On
the second and last day of the sale, Marcie still did not want anything to do
with anyone but her mother and the statue of Christ. She definitely was one of
those children who would not come to strangers no matter how much we tried to
entertain her. Thank goodness no one bought the statue as it was the only thing
that kept her busy and out of harm’s way throughout the two day sale. By
closing time on Saturday we were all elated that the sale had made enough money
to help keep the store running for another few months and they could afford to hire
another employee until Marcus could get back to work. After the sale we moved
all the tables back into the garage and decided to order a pizza to celebrate. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Before
the pizza arrived, I walked back into the garage from the kitchen to retrieve
the one thing I had purchased…the battered statue of Christ. I decided that
perhaps with a little paint it wouldn’t look so bad and would fit nicely in my
small patio garden. Obviously no one who came to the sale wanted it except
Marcie and her Mom said she was sure Marcie would soon forget all about it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">As I
reached down to pick it up, I noticed that we had forgotten to close the garage
doors and it had started to rain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hit
the button to close them and in that instant I caught a glimpse of little
Marcie as she came running up to the garage from the outside. Ice cold chills
ran through me as I screamed desperately: “No, Marcy Go back!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Instead
to my horror, Marcie froze directly under the closing door. She had not obeyed
one request from me since I met her and she was not going to start now. She
stubbornly shook her head “no.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">As
the door slowly moved down towards Marcie’s little body, I was in complete shock.
The tables blocked me from getting to her and there was no time to run through
the house and out the back door to snatch her from beneath the closing door. In
anguish I cried out: “Jesus, help me!” and my knees buckled as I shook from
sheer terror and helplessness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">As
my knees hit the concrete in an almost prayer like position, I saw the most
amazing answer to my prayer. Marcie was running towards me. She was so tiny she
sprinted underneath the tables in a flash just before the garage door would
have crushed her to death. She ran towards me with her arms opened wide as
though to run into my embrace. By this time I was crying and shaking so hard, I
could only utter, “Jesus, Jesus, praise you Jesus!” And as I cried out my
praise and wonder, little Marcie ran right past me to hug the battered statue
of Christ. She ran into Jesus arms and He had saved her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Christine Trollingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652227373328487178noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5286325816462750601.post-25739872622627253152016-10-24T13:14:00.002-07:002016-10-24T13:14:51.092-07:00Election PrayerElection Prayer<br />
by Fr. John A. Hardon, S.J.<br />
<span class="text_exposed_hide">...</span><br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
Lord Jesus Christ, You told us to give to Caesar what belongs to Caesar, and to God what belongs to God. Enlighten the minds of our people [in] America. May we choose a President of the United States, and other government officials, according to Your Divine Will. Give our citizens the courage to choose leaders of our nation who respect the sanctity of unborn human life, the sanctity of marriage, the sanctity of marital relations, the sanctity of the family, and the sanctity of the aging. Grant us the wisdom to give You, what belongs to You, our God. If we do this, as a nation, we are confident You will give us an abundance of Your blessings through our elected leaders. Amen.<br />
Composed by Father John Anthony Hardon, S.J.<br /> Imprimatur: +Rene H. Gracida, Bishop of Corpus Christi, July 7, 1992</div>
Christine Trollingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652227373328487178noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5286325816462750601.post-62278282830027100052016-08-20T15:33:00.003-07:002016-08-20T15:33:49.869-07:00Story of a man named Daniel <span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Hospital ministry can be such a blessing, but it can also cause a person to lose their focus on Christ if we allow it to. On one particular hectic Saturday a couple of years ago, I found myself seriously doubting the usefulness of such a ministry. The morning began with my running behind schedule, as I was really not feeling much up to doing it in the first place. To top it off, I was late getting to the hospital due to accidentally setting the alarm off at church when I unlocked the door. It was my turn as <i>Team Leader</i> to pick up the Eucharist from the church for our team members in the hospital ministry that </span><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">week. In my hurried frustration, I could not remember the code. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-499550686568858870" itemprop="description articleBody">
<br /><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 5pt 0.1in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">After several tries, I began to worry about how I would ever get to the hospital on time. For the life of me I could not get the alarm to accept my code and the incessant ringing of the burglar alarm was really starting to make me break out in a sweat.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 5pt 0.1in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Struggling to find my code in my purse, I finally located it and discovered I had transposed the numbers. “Drat!” I wondered to myself. “Will I ever learn this new fangled contraption?” Arriving out of breath and full of apologies to the others members of the ministry team<span style="color: navy;">, </span>we quickly set to work. After checking the patient logs the receptionist handed us, we split up the hosts and began our appointed rounds.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br /><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 5pt 0.1in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">While riding the elevator to the first floor of patients, I thought to myself: “I can serve Jesus today and take Him to those who need Him so very much.” I was trying very hard to talk myself into being cheerful and </span><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">enthusiastic. That thought started working as I came to the first floor, but by the 11th floor my spirit was beginning to lag once again. Feeling very dejected, I began to wonder why we even bothered giving up our time on Saturdays to do Hospital Ministry. That Saturday was much like the last few we had experienced. We volunteer our time to bring the Eucharist to the hospitalized and most of the patients are totally disinterested. The usual response was: “No, thanks! I don’t care to receive.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of the patients would even tell you out right they were not happy to be bothered with a visit. That Saturday morning it began to look as if I would have to return most of the hosts to the church again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br /><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 5pt 0.1in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As I checked in at the nursing station on the eleventh floor, I was beginning to get the definite feeling that I needed to step back from hospital ministry for a time. It had gotten to be very disheartening to have so many people not interested in receiving. They all seemed to be too busy wanting to see their doctor or involved in phone </span><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">conversation that I began to feel like the unwanted guest at a wedding reception.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br /><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 5pt 0.1in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As the nurse handed me back the approved patients list, I found there are only three patients on this last floor to visit, and only two of them could receive the Eucharist. The third patient was marked for a prayer visit only. I had to brace myself mentally for more refusals as I walked toward the first room to meet with a patient named Martha. I was definitely not happy and not in a cheerful mood. I worked mightily to paste a smile on my face and appear cheerful even though I felt like just calling it a day and going home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br /><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 5pt 0.1in;">
<span style="color: navy; font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As I tapped</span><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> on the door gently, I prepared to announce myself<span style="color: navy;">. B</span>ut before I could utter a word<span style="color: navy;">,</span> this very weak but beautiful voice said; “OH! Come in please! You have brought me my <i>Jesus!</i> I could see His light coming down the hall towards my room.” As I fully entered, I saw a lady who was eagerly anticipating her visit from the Divine Physician. This woman, I would learn later, had come to the hospital for the last time. Martha was in the </span><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">final stages of her cancer battle, but Martha’s soul was at peace as she eagerly awaited Her Lord! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br /><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 5pt 0.1in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Standing in her presence, I felt humbled and quite sure that I was witnessing a little miracle. Martha needed no one to tell her Jesus was present. Her eye’s gazed at the Host with what I can only describe as sheer rapture. It was as if the veil of the Tabernacle opened and Christ stepped forth to hold His dying child in His arms himself. I myself, to say the least, was chagrined at my earlier grumpy thoughts of how useless our ministry was. I left Martha to make the next patient visit with a very contrite spirit and I was full of joy to have been able to bring Christ to one sweet soul that day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br /><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 5pt 0.1in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In the moments before I approached the next room, I paused with tears coursing down my cheeks and contritely whispered to Jesus; “I am sorry for being so grumpy about giving my time to carry you to the sick. Martha has shown me Lord how much You care. I know that it is worth every minute of my time. I myself am a very poor instrument to </span><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">bring you to the sick and suffering. Please forgive me Jesus!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br /><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 5pt 0.1in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Checking with the next patient’s nurse, I found that this patient had a whole room full of visitors. Jim and his family members were very warm and welcoming, and they all wanted to receive Jesus! After leaving Jim and his family still deep in their prayers of thanksgiving for Christ in the Eucharist, I stopped outside the room of my last patient. Checking with his nurse I was a bit startled when she replied, “Daniel is probably not worth bothering with but go on in if you want to.” By this time I knew for certain that Christ wanted me to make the effort, even if it would be a waste of time. He had showed me how much He was appreciated by Martha and Jim’s family and I was determined not to disappoint Him again with my poor attitude. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br /><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 5pt 0.1in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I gently tapped on the door and announced myself to the motionless figure lying in the darkened hospital room. At the sound of my voice, Daniel turned over as best he could. In that instant, I found myself looking into the </span><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">most beautiful blue eyes I believe I have ever seen. Eyes, which smiled with the brightness of all heaven, as if to say; “Welcome! How happy I am that you have come to visit me!” Eye’s, which mesmerized me with their beauty even though Daniel, poor creature, was covered with the most awful pustules, which had disfigured his face. I could hardly recognize his nose and his mouth was full of the most haphazard gapping teeth I believe I have ever seen. Daniel, it turned out was profoundly retarded as well as very physically misshapen. But in my heart of hearts, I knew that Daniel not only recognized Jesus... to me he became Jesus in this most distressing disguise.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br /><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 5pt 0.1in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As I prayed at Daniel’s bedside, I swear I could hear the angels singing; <i>“Glory to God in the Highest and to all </i></span><i><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">his creatures on earth!”</span></i><span style="font-family: "Courier New";"> Daniel, even though he was mute and physically and mentally challenged, renewed my spirit more than I can say. I came to <i>bring</i> Jesus to the sick and the suffering, <span style="color: navy;">but</span> I <i>found</i> Jesus that day through the love for Christ in the Eucharist of a dying woman named </span><span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Martha. Jesus was there in midst of Jim’s family, and in the end, I found Jesus was Truly Present in the blue eyes of a man named Daniel.</span> <span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Copyright 1999 </div>
Christine Trollingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652227373328487178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5286325816462750601.post-83109526267732944552016-08-09T11:27:00.002-07:002016-08-09T11:27:59.692-07:00The Cat with Nine Lives <span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Pepper’s Funeral<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-7181644813094625931" itemprop="description articleBody">
<br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Several years ago I decided to make a trip to the country to visit my friend Mary. Her kids and mine were going to have a play date while Mary and I spent the day visiting and enjoying each other’s company. Soon after we arrived, Mary went to check on her cat Pepper who had gone out earlier in the day and never returned. It was not at all like her cat to wander away for a half day without food or water breaks. We decided to get in the car and drive around the country side looking for Pepper. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Up one lane and down another we drove for over an hour when suddenly we spotted Pepper lying in the road. It was obvious the cat had died from the impact of being hit by a car. Luckily the cat wasn’t obviously bloody; it had just died from the accident we surmised.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The kids were beside themselves with grief.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we tried to comfort them I suggested we gather up the dead cat and have a proper burial for it. It was going to be one of those teachable moments when the children would learn to grieve and yet celebrate life. In this case the life of Pepper the cat and the joy she had brought to them throughout the years.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">We got the kids involved in finding a proper casket…in this case a box that Mary had on hand. We gave them crayons and markers to make the box look pretty and found some old material to line it with. Then we had them make out invitations to deliver to the neighborhood children for the funeral and luncheon we would have the next day. It kept the kids busy and made them feel a little better about Pepper’s demise. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Mary’s husband Dave went into the back yard when he got home and dug a proper hole for the funeral and burial of Pepper. The rest of us dispersed to the neighbors to tell them Pepper had died and invite them to the funeral and luncheon with their children.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The next day I and my children again made the trip to Mary’s house for Peppers funeral. Several neighbors had come and so we all solemnly processed out to the backyard with the kids acting as pall bearers. Dave gave a wonderful eulogy about the life and times of Pepper and all she had meant to them as a family. Each of the children placed a flower on the grave and then we went into the house to have a nice funeral luncheon which the children had prepared. Ok. so it was peanut butter and jelly sandwiches but we all ate and acted like it was a feast in honor of Pepper the cat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">By the time we had finished our luncheon I decided it was time for me and my brood to gather up our belongings and head home again. Offering my condolences for the final time I opened the door to leave and almost tripped over a cat that came racing into the house and jumped right into Peppers bed. Miracles of miracles Pepper was not dead. But we never did find out whose cat we had buried.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial;">Copyright 2013</span></div>
</div>
Christine Trollingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652227373328487178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5286325816462750601.post-11416801824933472292016-02-04T09:45:00.003-08:002016-02-04T09:45:24.667-08:00Finding True Gold in a Bank VaultMy former pastor Father John Giacopelli, who retired in 1992,once told me about his first Ash Wednesday experience after his retirement, in New Jersey where he retired to. He was originally from NY, but had spent his active ministry years in our diocese. Today, contemplating this Ash Wednesday, and how it is the beginning of our time for cleaning our spiritual homes, I once again got a chuckle from the memory of Father John's story.<br /><br />Father John was one of those priests who people were naturally drawn to. Even in retirement, he never left the house without wearing his clerical suit and his Roman collar. On this particular Ash Wednesday, he decided to stop by the bank on his way to visit the local nursing home after having attended Mass. Along with his clerical garb, this day he sported the Ash Wednesday ashes on his forehead. <br /><br />As he approached the teller, she exclaimed: “Oh! My goodness today must be Ash Wednesday. I have not been to church in years! Father, could you hear my confession? “<br /><br />Father John…never one to miss an opportunity to bring in the stray sheep, of course said; “Sure, is there a quiet place where we can go for your confession?” The woman thought for a minute, and said:”We can use the bank vault.”<br /><br />So, off they both went to the bank vault for confession. Father John related as how that was not the end of the story though. When they had finished and exited the bank vault, there was a line of about twenty bank employees, including the President of the bank…waiting to have their confession heard. <br /><br />The rich symbolism of Ash Wednesday still reverberates across the centuries to this present day. May you all have a beautiful cleansing Lent, and everyday experience the Love and Forgiveness of Our Heavenly Father. Chances are you will not find such riches in a Bank Vault, but who knows...with God anything is possible. <br />
<div style="clear: both;">
</div>
<div class="post-footer">
<div class="post-footer-line post-footer-line-1">
<span class="post-author vcard"> Posted by <span class="fn" itemprop="author" itemscope="itemscope" itemtype="http://schema.org/Person"> <a class="g-profile" data-gapiattached="true" data-gapiscan="true" data-onload="true" href="https://www.blogger.com/profile/01652227373328487178" rel="author" title="author profile"><span itemprop="name"><span style="color: #99aadd;">Christine Trollinger</span></span></a></span></span></div>
</div>
Christine Trollingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652227373328487178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5286325816462750601.post-24504605249936092632015-12-28T09:14:00.002-08:002015-12-28T09:14:15.117-08:00“Daddy’s Little Girl” <br />
By: Christine Trollinger <br />
Today I find myself musing on the many memories of my childhood and especially memories of my Dad. I remember being little enough that my father would dance with me singing the popular tune of that era, called “Daddy’s Little Girl”. I would stand on the top of his shoes as we glided around the living room floor, pretending we were in a grand ballroom. <br />
How I loved to dance with my father and pretend I was the Belle of the ball. But suddenly, one day I could no longer dance. One April morning in 1955, I awoke to raging fever, pain and muscle contractions. My father scooped me up into his arms and rushed me into town to our little hospital. The diagnosis was one, which struck fear in the hearts of every parent and child during that time of year. Polio had come to our little ballroom and life would never be quite the same. <br />
As we lived far from any major city, our little hospital was ill equipped to deal with polio patients. I rapidly began do decline. Although I was supposedly unconscious, I can remember hearing the doctor speaking to my parents and telling them I would not live through the night. At that moment, my little eight-year-old mind began to pray the Angel Guardian Prayer…”There are four corners on my bed, there are four angels round my head. Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the angels my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.” Suddenly, there in that dismal hospital room, angels surrounded me. I remember their beauty and how my guardian angel reached down and touched me, and told me I would be fine again one day. My life would be changed, but I would not die from the illness that was racking my body. <br />
The next thing I remembered was my dad, sitting beside me and singing to me hour after hour…”Daddy’s Little Girl” became his fight song. A song to cheer me up, a song to help me make it through the night, a song from his heart, which echoed to mine through all of the pain.<br />
You're the end of the rainbow, my pot of gold,<br /> You're daddy's little girl to have and hold.<br /> A precious gem is what you are,<br /> You're mommy's bright and shining star.<br />
You're the spirit of Christmas, my star on the tree,<br /> You're the Easter bunny to mommy and me.<br /> You're sugar you're spice, you're everything nice,<br /> And you're daddy's little girl.<br />
You're the end of the rainbow, my pot of gold,<br /> You're daddy's little girl to have and hold.<br /> A precious gem is what you are,<br /> You're mommy's bright and shining star.<br />
You're the treasure I cherish so sparkling and bright,<br /> You were touched by the holy and beautiful light.<br /> Like angels that sing, a heavenly thing,<br /> And you're daddy's little girl. <br />
God’s amazing grace came with that beautiful song. One day, I began to recover from the worst of the illness and was sent home, crippled but alive. We could not afford big city hospitals and so our little home was quarantined. Through it all, my father never left my side. Hour after hour, day after day, my dad was beside me. He read everything he could find about Polio and treatments, which might strengthen my ravaged legs. From our small town library, dad found a book which was to change the course of my life. It was the autobiography of Sister Elizabeth Kenny, entitled “And They Shall Walk.” <br />
Dad contacted the Sister Kenny Institute, to learn how to do the therapy and doggedly began working with her methods to bring my legs back to life. The therapy consisted of stretching exercise and hot, packs, which burned like fire. I can still remember his big strong hands working with those Hot packs. His gentle hands were red from the heat and as I would cry out in pain, Dad would cry with me and promise me it would be better, all the while singing our battle song to keep me strong and see me through the pain.<br />
<br />
When I could not stand the pain of having even light covers touching my body, daddy build a special cage out of chicken wire which formed a frame around my bed, so I could stay warm but the blankets would not touch me and cause me more pain. Dad slept on the floor beside me and never let his tiredness or worries be seen. His ever-present laughter, and faith in God, was our constant companion throughout that terrible summer. Finally his effort began to make the difference. Slowly but surely I could once again stand. Now we began our little ballroom dance with earnest. Balancing me on the top of his feet, he would teach me to walk once again, just as he had taught me how to dance. And of course the song was always the same…”Daddy’s Little Girl” which he sang with relish and joy each step that we took together. And the day that I stood and walked into his arms unaided, well…I know that song was in both of our hearts. <br />
By the time school rolled around again, I was able to walk and to return to a normal life. My dancing legs would never be quite the same, but for the most part all the muscles had come back with just minor weakness in one leg. Polio is still a part of my life, since I later developed "Postpolio sequelae" , but I will keep on dancing and remembering my fathers strength and faith that God will never let us dance alone…if we trust him to see us through. My father will always be my favorite dance partner in my book of memories.Christine Trollingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652227373328487178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5286325816462750601.post-42370216766129042572015-12-15T10:16:00.000-08:002015-12-15T10:16:03.523-08:00Santa was a Cowboy
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Christmas approaches swiftly again this
year. The memories of Christmas on the Plains of Nebraska, in the 1950’s comes
to my mind. One such cherished memory is of a Blizzard, which struck a few days
before Christmas, in 1955.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Early
one morning that particular Christmas week, we awoke to the sight of blowing
and heavy falling snow. It arrived with such force the farmyard became almost
invisible. Immediately, Dad called us all together to detail the job ahead. The
animals needed feeding and the cows needed milking. Even though most
townspeople could safely snuggle in their beds to wait out the storm, as a farm
family, we had duties to care for the livestock even in a blinding snowstorm.
Dad carefully tied us all together, using rope so that we could reach the
safety of the barn for the task at hand. Admonishing us to watch out for one
another and stay close, we began our morning with a seriousness born of life
and survival on the plains in winter. </span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 19.2pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">With
each of us bundled in coats, boots and mittens we struggled through the
blinding snow out to the barnyard. Slowly feeling our way along the fence
posts, we had to shout to keep track of one another as we struggled against
nature to reach our goal. After several hours of working with the animals and
securing them in the barn, we struggled back through the still swirling snow.
As we reached our final goal of the house, Mom was waiting with Hot Cocoa and a
warm fire burning in the kitchen stove for us to warm ourselves up again.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 19.2pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The
rest of the morning we spent snuggled in the warm kitchen, making Christmas
breads and cookies for the coming Christmas celebration while Dad kept watch
over the weather conditions. </span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 19.2pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> By
early afternoon, the snow had stopped and it became apparent we would not be
going anywhere soon. The snowdrifts were several feet deep and the road was
buried. We knew it could be days before the snowplows came our way from the
County Works Dept.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With the visibility
improved my Dad bundled up to set out in pursuit of any stranded travelers he
might assist. We lived about a mile from a main highway and anyone who might
have been stranded would soon succumb to the cold. Firing up the old “John
Deer” tractor, Dad left to pursue his goal of checking the roads for possible victims
of the Fury of the storm. </span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 19.2pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">By
dusk, Mom was visibly worried and we children became quiet. We joined our hands
in prayer and quietly huddled together praying our Daddy would safely make it
home. As darkness began to fall in earnest, we suddenly heard the sound of our
“Old John Deer” slowly making its way back into the yard. With a collective
sigh of relief, we all ran to the front porch to usher Dad back into the
warmth. Much to our surprise the first person through the door was a stranger.
Dad introduced the man as Chuck. Dad explained that just about dark he had
decided to give up the search, when he had spotted a Pick-up truck buried in
the snow bank along the old highway exit road.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 19.2pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">For
the rest of Christmas week Chuck worked along side all of us and proved himself
a friend in deed. Chuck, we soon learned, was an itinerate Cowboy who was traveling
from Texas to begin a job on the McGinley ranch, a few miles farther east from
us. The next morning, when he entered the barn to help out with chores, our
newest horse Toni suddenly began banging the stall and whinnying. Toni
immediately greeted Chuck with a friendly but insistent nudge at Chucks
pockets. </span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 19.2pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Much
to every ones surprise, Toni and Chuck already knew one another. Chuck had
worked on the King ranch in Texas when Toni was there as a colt. Chuck had
saddle broke him and taught him to cut cattle when Toni was just a young colt
in Texas. </span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 19.2pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Toni
had proved a bit skitterish when we first brought him home. Dad was still
working with him to gentle him out. Chuck immediately showed us that Toni was a
pro with the right stuff. Chuck and Toni were a team in Texas and soon Toni
warmed up to us all. </span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> First
and foremost, Toni loved Cotton cake, which Chuck always had in his pocket. Within
a day, Dad and the rest of us could get Toni to do all we asked of him. Toni
was now a real part of our family farm team… thanks to a stranger named Chuck.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 19.2pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As
Christmas week progressed, the roads were still impassable with no sign of the
snowplows in sight. The phone lines were still down and we had no way to
communicate with the outside world. We were so looking forward to the Christmas
Pageant at St Elizabeth’s Parish followed by Christmas Eve mass. There was no
way we could get to town in all that snow. Fearing Christmas would be canceled;
we children grew quiet and somber. We began to fuss that even Santa could not
get to our house this particular year. Our Letters had never been delivered to
him because of the snowstorm. </span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 19.2pt; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> On the day
before Christmas Eve Chuck, our newfound guest came up with a plan. A plan that
would make Santa and his reindeer proud. Chuck went out to the barn and saddled
up Toni. He admonished us all, not to give up. He would set off for town and
guide the snowplows to our farm to clear the roads. Dad was a bit hesitant, but
Chuck assured him that he and Toni had traveled many miles together in Texas
dust storms and could get through the snow on the plains of Nebraska. Dad
warmed to the idea eventually, and saddled up our faithful old mare, ”Lady”, to
make sure Chuck and Toni did not get lost. Dad knew the plains and the land
well, even when it was buried in snow. </span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> With
a cheerful wave they set off, loping belly deep through the snow drifts. Later
that day, the sound of snow plows brought smiles of joy and relief to our
faces. With Chuck and Toni leading the way, the plows cleared our roads and
made it possible for us to get to town the following day. Chuck was able to get
his truck out of the snow bank and be on his way to his new job. </span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 19.2pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Early Christmas Eve night, before
we went to town, the front door of our little farmhouse opened with a bang! In
came Santa to pay us a personal visit. In his bag were all the very toys we
children had lamented that Santa would not bring this year. Even if he could
have made it through the snow, we were sure he would not have gotten our
Christmas list. This particular year though, Santa was wearing cowboy boots,
and seemed to have a very distinct “Texas” drawl when he exclaimed; “HO HO HO!
Merry Christmas Ya’all!” </span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
Christine Trollingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652227373328487178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5286325816462750601.post-3776740385804586262015-11-11T06:25:00.003-08:002015-11-11T06:25:49.052-08:00Love Thy Enemies as I have loved You<br />
My father was a Marine and he served in the Pacific during World War II. For the most part, dad rarely spoke about the war. Like most soldiers who served, the subject was one with too many painful memories. Dad generally would keep the subject light and entertaining whenever he did speak about the war. There was one story though, that my father loved to tell my brothers and I whenever we would ask about the war. It was a story dear to his heart.<br />
During the winding down of the war against Japan, dad was serving in the Pacific theater. One night he drew night patrol and was assigned to scout for enemy troop movements in the rough jungle terrain. He had just climbed a tree to conceal himself, when seemingly out of nowhere the entire area beneath the tree was filled with enemy Japanese soldiers. Dad found himself trapped in the treetop for hours on end, as the enemy decided to camp right beneath the tree.<br />
Barely able to breath, for fear of giving away his position, dad said he spent the time praying for God’s protection and asking God to help him. Every prayer he had ever learned, swirled through his mind and heart, as he waited silently in that treetop. He prayed that he would not be discovered, and as time went on he began to pray for the enemy soldiers beneath the tree. He said he could see, in his minds eye, our family back home and he imagined these soldiers were missing their loved ones too.<br />
Up close, the enemy soldiers looked very much like the men in his unit. While their physical appearance was not American, and he could not understand their language, he knew from observing them that they were Gods children too. Men caught up in a war, which had brought them all to serve their country. Each one standing for what they thought was right, according to their upbringing and nationality. Like him, they were ordinary men with families and friends in a country far away. Men who might never see their loved ones again should they perish in the jungles of war. As he prayed and watched them, they sat relaxed around the jungle clearing, laughing and sharing letters and photos from back home, the same as my father and his fellow soldiers did when not on alert.<br />
As night began to give way to the first light of the morning, my father accepted that in the end, he would probably not be returning home. The odds were stacked against him and he knew he could not remain motionless and undetected for much longer. Having made his peace with God, my dad began his final silent prayer. He prayed for the men beneath the tree and their families. He prayed for courage for the necessity, which might mean he must fire upon and kill his enemy. And for forgiveness also, as my father never took Gods commandment, “Thou shalt not kill,” lightly.<br />
Just as my father gave the outcome over to Our Father in Heaven and made the sign of the cross, an enemy soldier spotted his hiding place in the treetop. As my father signed himself with the cross, their eye’s locked upon one another in the instance of war and the struggle to survive. To my dad’s utter amazement, the enemy soldier silently made the sign of the cross on his own forehead, and put his finger to his lips as if to say; “Be still my brother. I shall not betray you.” Almost in that very instant, the enemy soldiers began to move out as silently and as quickly as they had arrived. My dad never ceased Thanking God for his protection on that day. And dad always remembered to pray for his brother in Christ whose name dad never knew. Copyright: 2015Christine Trollingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652227373328487178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5286325816462750601.post-27365318472552585102015-11-03T08:07:00.002-08:002015-12-17T05:35:49.891-08:00Mary My Mother<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My
mother and I had not always had the best of relationships when I was growing
up. Mom was born in New York City and placed in an orphanage at the age of two
weeks. Even though she was adopted at the age of twenty-two months by a
wonderful German immigrant couple, her birth circumstances had left her a
bitter person growing up. In those days, being an orphan was something that
other children would torment you about, and it left deep scars in my mother’s
life. It was a bitterness, which made it difficult for her to love and
demonstrate affection to others, especially her own children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mom was verbally and sometime physically very
abusive to us when we were growing up. Thankfully, we had a very loving and
gentle man for our father. About the only maternal love my mother was capable
of sharing, was her love for the rosary and Our Lady. Both Mother and I had
taken Mary as Our mother from early childhood. It was a shared devotion that
would eventually blossom into a mended Mother-Daughter relationship, in a most
mysterious way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In
September 1992, I had a dream about visiting my mother and praying the rosary
with her. Just before I woke up from the dream, a voice very firmly said; “Go
home and see your mother.” I thought that it was a very strange dream indeed,
but somehow, in my heart, I knew it was God telling me something very
important. When I got up the next morning, I packed a suitcase and called Mom
to tell her I would be home for the Labor Day weekend. It would be the first time
I had returned home to Nebraska since my beloved father had died seven years
before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After my dad’s death, I found it
difficult to be around my mother for any length of time. Her sharp tongue was
not something I had ever learned to overlook. I called her weekly of course,
and she visited me many times…but actually returning to my childhood home was
something, which I found impossible to do after Dad’s death. It just conjured
up too many painful memories. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When
I arrived late Friday, Mom was happy to see me and we planned to attend my
cousins wedding together the next day. The wedding was a perfect excuse for my
unplanned visit. Mom and I went out to dinner and visited with friends that
Friday night. It was such a wonderful evening and I was sure God had planned a
very special weekend for us. Before it would end, I would know that Our Lady
had obviously planned a very special “wedding miracle once again. A Miracle of
healing only her loving heart could obtain for us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">On
Saturday morning we went to garage sales, as it was something we both enjoyed
and ended up at an Estate sale. We laughed as we picked through all the bargain
items for sale when Mom picked up a statue of Our Lady of the Immaculate Heart.
The poor statue had seen better days, and really should have been discarded.
Mom insisted she was buying it for me as a birthday gift. I fell into peels of
giggles over that one, let me tell you. It hardly had any paint left on it and
it had no nose. But it would become, one of the most precious gifts my mother
ever gave me. After lunch Mom and I went to church and prayed a rosary together
in Our Ladies chapel. Suddenly, I could sense that this was a special visit
indeed. The scent of roses permeated the air.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">That
evening after attending the wedding, Mom and I returned to her house and
settled down for the evening. I was reading my bible before going to bed, and
Mom was watching a TV program about child abuse. Suddenly my mother turned the
volume way up and asked me if that bothered me. I was puzzled and replied,
“Well, it is pretty loud. Are you losing your hearing? “ Mom instantly turned
the volume down and with tears in her eye’s said, “NO, I meant the program and
what you think about parents who abuse their children.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without really thinking, I responded,” Mom, I
think it is very sad indeed. You were abusive to us. I forgive you and love
you. It’s in the past and doesn’t really matter any more.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In that instant Mom and I finally came
together in a closeness we had never before been able to achieve.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And before the visit was over, I would know
that Our Lady had indeed been the Motherly mentor for us both. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoBlockText" style="margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">The following day, as we were getting ready for Mass, Mom
suddenly was overwhelmed with a terrible fit of vomiting. As time passed I got
very worried and called the ambulance against her wishes. This was the
beginning of a painful journey in our lives. But a journey, which God would
bless at each crossroad, we would encounter. By the following day, in hospital,
Mom suffered a stroke, which destroyed her eyesight. The next day, an abdominal
aneurysm almost killed her. Following surgery for that, she suffered blood
clots and more surgery. By the time the medical crisis had concluded, Mom went
from a healthy vibrant woman, to being blind and a double amputee. Through the
many nights of waiting and praying, I began to work on that poor battered
statue. I could not really believe I could fix it, but it gave me something to
do. I so wanted Mom to see it repaired. I think in my heart of hearts, I wanted
God to repair Mom, but I knew that was not to be. Suddenly, as I painted the
face, a nose mysteriously appeared. Then with a few strokes of the brush, the
statue became a beautiful and a perfect image of Mary once again. Mary, Our
Mother, had miraculously repaired the image of our Mother Daughter relationship
and also left a tangible sign of her love for us. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoBlockText" style="margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: "arial";"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">While
Mom would never fully recover her eyesight, she would lovingly feel the
contours of that little statue, and exclaim how beautiful it was. And together,
in the remaining four years of mother’s life, we knew that Our Lady was truly
our Mother indeed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XP0slwDsn7Y/VnK6JRn0fDI/AAAAAAAAAdA/bJ02Xt5JjyU/s1600/12195928_890617341028495_8789157081388433531_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XP0slwDsn7Y/VnK6JRn0fDI/AAAAAAAAAdA/bJ02Xt5JjyU/s320/12195928_890617341028495_8789157081388433531_n.jpg" width="155" /></a></span></div>
<br />
</div>
Christine Trollingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652227373328487178noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5286325816462750601.post-26933477254037802015-10-01T06:41:00.002-07:002015-10-01T06:41:27.181-07:00Sadie’s Rose PetalsHappy Feast Of Saint Theresa. Here is a story I wrote about our little Prayer warrior Sadie in 1999. She loved St Theresa.<br />
<br /> On a glorious morning in June of 1999, I was admiring God’s amazing handy work and daydreaming about the warm summer days ahead. Roses and all the glorious summer flowers were just bursting into bloom. I was enjoying the fruits of my labors by sitting in my small patio garden and planning for the summer months ahead. Pictures of the <br /> family gatherings and outdoor summer BBQ’s were dancing in my head.<br />
The ringing sound of my telephone would change those thoughts in an instant. Never in my wildest imaginings, could I have envisioned how very differently that summer would be. It would begin a family journey of great trials. A journey that would be filled with fear, heartache, and tears that none of us could have foreseen on that early summer morning.<br />
As I strolled into the kitchen to quickly catch the phone call, I had expected a cheery greeting on the other end. Immediately though, I knew by the sound of my Aunt Dories voice, something was very much amiss. Her voice was tense from struggling to control her tears. She quickly explained that her daughter (my cousin Terry) was on the way to a Trauma hospital. Her sixteen-year-old son Kelly had been in a terrible car accident. He had flat lined several times on the way to the first hospital they took <br /> him to. Their parish priest had jumped in the ambulance as it sped away. It was touch and go as to whether Kelly would survive. With a quick goodbye, we began a summer’s journey, which would take us over roads we never would have planned to travel. <br />
In the days and weeks following the accident, Kelly remained in serious condition. In July they moved him to the “Children’s Hospital” in Denver, CO. Kelly was still in coma, but in Denver he was close to a larger part of our extensive family. Terry’s brothers and sisters all live there. It helped ease the burden somewhat. Terry and Dwaine (Kelly’s parents) had a large support base to help out with Kelly’s care and the hospital visits. Terry’s sister Pam, and her family were a large part of the support team caring for Kelly. Pam’s little daughter Sadie was the littlest Prayer warrior for her cousin Kelly. She <br /> and Kelly were very close, and even though Sadie was only six, Kelly had always been her hero.<br />
Through all the weeks of Kelly’s remaining in coma, Sadie made it her project to pray to “St. Theresa the Little Flower.” Sadie was adamant that Saint Theresa would gain a miracle for Kelly. She knew her cousin would be well again, because she said; “St Theresa had told her so.” In return, Sadie had promised God that she too would help the missions, just like Theresa had always wanted to. We were <br /> all amused at her Mission fervor and her faithfulness to prayer.<br />
Sadie’s vigilance paid off. In late July, Father Peter Mary Rookey, arranged a phone conference of prayer. The phone was placed next to Kelly’s ear, and Father Rookey prayed and spoke to Kelly even though he was in coma. Kelly came out of coma and made remarkable progress. We were all relieved and elated of course. By the last week of September it appeared as though our worlds were finally coming back to normal once again. <br />
Kelly was home and in rehab and progressing quite well. No one gave much thought to the minor surgery coming up for Sadie. It was just a routine Tonsillectomy after all. We giggled at how Sadie was so brave and said St Theresa was going to make sure she could eat French Fries when she got home from the hospital. She wasn’t very happy, later when she was told “No French fries,” until the Doctor said it was ok. But she did like the fact she got ice cream whenever she wanted it. The surgery was on Monday morning and she was home by that afternoon. Sadie, was one of those children that nothing seemed to phase much. She <br /> could entertain herself for hours talking to her imaginary friends, to Saint Theresa and to Jesus.<br />
The following Friday began with a check-up at the doctor’s office. After that, Pam and the girls (Sadie and her sister Laney) went shopping. Pam and the girls kept finding Rose Petals on every aisle they turned into in the store. No one seemed to know where they came from. Sadie took it in stride as only a six year old can…She was sure St. Theresa had sent her Rose Petal’s for being such a <br /> good patient and dutifully not eating any French Fries when they had stopped for lunch before going back home. <br />
Friday night, the girls played until bedtime in their playroom. Sadie drew pictures for her Mommy and Daddy. They were the kind of children’s art, which all parents know are better than any the artist Picasso could ever create. At bedtime, Glenn and Pam listened to the girls say their nighttime prayers and everyone dutifully let Sadie say her favorite prayers to Saint Theresa and to her guardian angel. All in all, the day had been quite ordinary, except for the mysterious Rose Petals.<br />
At the time, I was in Marytown, IL at the retreat center. I was on a pilgrimage to offer our thanksgiving for God’s marvelous mercy and answer to our prayers that summer. From place to place in my travels I also kept finding mysterious showers of Rose Petals. On the Feast of St. Theresa, I attended a special Memorial Mass for her Feast Day. I was in awe that I was the only one allowed to take a picture of the statue. It is very old and precious, so <br /> cameras are not allowed. As I snapped the picture I found a shower of Rose Petals at my feet once again. I decided it must be a picture meant for Sadie. St. Theresa would want me to give it to her I was quite sure. <br />
Just as I came in the door from the airport on Sunday morning, my husband told me I needed to call my Aunt Dorie. By the way he quickly turned away with tears in his eyes, I knew something was very wrong.<br />
With my heart in my throat, I quickly dialed the number; all the while thinking Kelly must have had another crisis. Instead, my Aunt delivered the terrible news that our <br /> Little prayer warrior Sadie had died. Sadie’s scab had come off during the night and she had hemorrhaged to death. Pam found her on Saturday morning, when she went to wake her up for breakfast. <br />
Through the days that followed, we all clung to Sadie’s beloved St. Theresa to give us comfort. Losing a child is a nightmare beyond belief. Losing a child so unexpectedly has got to be even worse. For the first week Pam and Glenn were not allowed to make arrangements to bury Sadie. The police cordoned off the house as though it were a crime scene. It took and autopsy and the doctor’s surgical records to get the body released for burial. The doctor had accidentally cut the carotid artery during surgery and lasered it shut, along with the normal wound of a tonsillectomy. The doctor never mentioned the mistake that she had made during surgery. It was mistake, which would take my family to our knees once more in prayer. This time the prayer was one of grief without the hope of physical <br /> healing. They were prayers of anguish and heartbreak. We had no ability to even ask…”Why God? Why Sadie?” Although I know we all must have thought it from time to time. <br /> Sadie, ever the faithful prayer warrior would not have been pleased if we had.<br />
As if to punctuate Sadie’s happiness and trust in God, my Aunt found a seemingly heaven sent sign, while cleaning up the playroom before the funeral. There on the play table was Sadie’s last drawing she did of herself. She drew herself with angel wings. It was covered with those same mysterious Rose Petals and it was signed; “Sadie – I am so happy. Jesus Loves Me!” <br />
In the end, we have grieved and we have mourned, but we know nonetheless, that Sadie is safe and warm. Sadie is enjoying the vision only she could see when she gave us the courage of her little prayers. As Pam and Glenn testified at the rosary vigil the night before the funeral…”She was ours but for a little while. God gave her to us on loan. He gave us a beautiful child to return to <br /> Him as a saint, when she was finished with her mission.” Sadie’s mission in this life has blessed us all. We are the family of one of God’s “littlest Saints.”Christine Trollingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652227373328487178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5286325816462750601.post-81773134946837524262015-07-26T21:46:00.000-07:002015-07-26T21:46:06.339-07:00The Rocking Chair
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
Today while sorting though some boxes,
I found a beautiful crochet tablecloth made by my grandmother. Instantly I was
transported back in time, back to the idyllic days of my childhood and special
visits with my Nanny, as we children referred to my mother’s adoptive mother. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt; text-indent: 0.4in;">
As a young woman,
Nanny emigrated from Germany and arrived in the States in the late 1800’s. She
and her sisters originally settled in Wisconsin; later they moved to a small
town in eastern Nebraska where she met and married my grandfather, William, in
1903. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>William
was the love of her life. He died when my mother was only eight years old, but
through Nanny’s stories I felt as though I knew him. In the first several years
of their marriage they had given life to eight precious souls – eight “little
angels,” as Nanny referred to her children. But life on the plains in the early
1900’s was hard, and illness claimed all but one of their children before they
reached adulthood. How my Nanny mourned the loss of her babies! But she and
William had big hearts, which embraced a little orphan girl who arrived on an
orphan train one summer day in 1923. That little orphan was my mother,
Margaret. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt; text-indent: 0.4in;">
Mom was just two weeks
old when her birth mother placed her in the Foundling Hospital in New York
City. Twenty-two months later, Mom was placed on a train full of orphans and
sent out across the United States to be placed with adoptive parents. Nanny and
William were in their late forties and had one grown son, so by today’s
standards they might seem like an unlikely couple to adopt. But in the days
before adoption agencies and child services, it was a common practice. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt; text-indent: 0.4in;">
The orphanages in the
East were overflowing with abandoned children, and the Foundling Home, run by
the Sisters of Charity, together with the Children’s Aid Society, had set up an
adoption program through their respective churches. They would send out fliers
to the churches announcing the date and time that the trains would be passing
through. Anyone wanting a child was to come to the station on the appointed
day. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When
the day arrived for the orphan train, Nanny and William were there to receive
their baby girl. They didn’t know anything more about my mother, but Grandma
said that when the train pulled into the station, and the children were placed
on the platform, my mother reached out for them. It was love at first sight –
and I think it was also the beginning of my Nanny’s love for train travel.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt; text-indent: 0.4in;">
Nanny entertained me
for hours with stories about her travels across Europe as a young girl, and the
places she had visited in her lifetime. She would sit in her rocking chair, and
I would stand on rockers holding onto the back of the chair. This was our own
private “train” from which we would travel all over the world. With a child’s
enthusiasm and imagination, she made the sounds of a train whistling and wheels
clacking along the railroad tracks. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt; text-indent: 0.4in;">
Just like a
professional conductor, she would announce each stop and then we would go on an
imaginary journey to visit the sights of Germany, France, London and all points
in between. Nanny would often point out of the window beside her rocker, and
describe the scenery of these exotic places to me. We picnicked on the banks of
the Danube, shopped in Paris, visited London’s famous bridge, and hiked through
the Alps of Switzerland and the Black Forests of Germany.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
vividly remember the last time I stayed with Nanny. We had played our train
travel game for hours on end as she made that lovely tablecloth I found in the
box today. Just before bedtime, Nanny got very serious and said: “Come with me,
I want to show you a special dress I have saved for my funeral. It’s my wedding
dress, which I wore when I married my beloved Will.” </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt; text-indent: 0.4in;">
Opening the trunk in
her bedroom, she lovingly took out the most exquisite bronze silk gown I have
ever seen. Her eyes grew dreamy and she described the day she wore it when she
married Grandpa William. Her face glowed with anticipation and joy at the
thought of seeing him once again. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At
first, I could only understand that my grandma would be leaving, and I would
never see her again. As I sobbed and begged her to stay, Nanny lovingly held me
close and told me that whatever I should do at her funeral, I was to watch how
the candles would wave as they flickered in the breeze. Nanny said that would
be my sign that she was still watching over me, and that I should be happy and
not sad. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Shortly
after that visit, Nanny died. I was adamant that Nanny said she was to be
buried in her wedding dress. All the adults of course said the dress didn’t
exist … no one in the family had ever seen it. They looked in the trunk at my
six-year old insistence, but it was not there. All that was in the trunk was a
thick braid of Nanny’s hair, which she had clipped off and saved from her
younger days. Her beautiful locks had once upon a time crowned her head and
reached to her knees. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt; text-indent: 0.4in;">
Inside the trunk,
Nanny’s braid was fashioned lovingly with beautiful tortoise-shell combs, a
candle, and a photograph of her and William on their wedding day. The picture
was of the very dress Nanny had showed to me.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now,
stroking Nanny’s beautiful tablecloth once again, I smile as I remember how
Nanny taught me to see sights and sounds and smells that others were not able
to see. She was totally blind, but she could paint vivid memories that
transported a child through space and time. As to whatever happened to Nanny’s
wedding dress … that has always remained a mystery. Perhaps Nanny’s description
allowed my six-year-old eyes to “see” a memory that was so powerful, it seemed
physically present at the time. My Nanny could see beyond the ordinary things
in this world as she prepared for her journey home to Our Lord and to her
beloved Will. She created adventure and memories in her heart, and Nanny’s
rocking chair traveled farther than most trains ever could in one small child’s
lifetime.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
Christine Trollingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652227373328487178noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5286325816462750601.post-68884651090593842632015-07-02T11:46:00.002-07:002017-04-28T12:54:45.509-07:00Last Mass<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Lost and Found
</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Back in the 1980’s I found myself very frustrated with God
and church in general. Nothing seemed to be going right. What’s the use, I
asked myself, in believing in a God who never answers prayers. Is he really out
there at all? </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">After much soul searching I had decided to forget the whole
religious idea and just get on with life. Work and family were the important
ingredients for life I had decided. Things continued to go wrong but at least I
wasn’t depending on an unseen God to direct my future. I was in charge and
would plow on alone in my quest for my ideals.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">By 1986 I had decided to join my husbands Baptist faith. We went to a candel lighting </span><span style="font-family: calibri;">ceremony</span><span style="font-family: calibri;"> . They had the Lords Supper (which they rarely do)</span><span style="font-family: calibri;"> as they passed the heavy pewter plate ton me it flew into the air. My husband caught it and the crackers floated down like feathers. Scared me half to death. As Christmas approached I felt a
sudden nostalgia to attend one last Midnight Mass. The feeling lingered all
week long and gradually became an obsession, so on Christmas Eve I decided to
go to confession and attend the Midnight Mass at the local parish. I knew I had
to confess my sins to participate and so off I went that Saturday to make my
first and what I thought would be my last confession.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">When I arrived at the parish at the appointed time which was
listed on the sign outside the church, there was no one around but a lone
workman. He asked me if he could help me and I told him I was there for confession.
He gave me a very strange look, and said we don’t have confessions on Holy
Days. We did general confessions last Wednesday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I was very embarrassed as I knew he must know I had been
gone from church a long time as I had no idea the rubric’s had changed and I
was truly a duck out of water as my father used to say. Quickly sputtering that
I was sorry to have disturbed his work, I turned to leave as fast as I could.
Suddenly I found myself running out the door and straight into another workman.
I almost fell over from the collision. The man steadied me on my feet and asked
if he could help me. By this time I was so embarrassed I just wanted out of
there. I told him I had mistakenly come thinking there would be confessions and
to that he replied: “No problem, I’m Father Mike and I can hear your
confession.” Then he whipped out the ole Roman collar from the back of his
overalls. Egad! I thought, now I am well and truly stuck, I’ll have to go
through with it, so I followed him to the confessional and began my first
confession in over twenty years. It wasn’t easy as I forgot how to go through
most of the prayers so I began with “Bless me Father for I have sinned, it has
been twenty years since my last confession and I don’t remember how to confess.
You’ll have to help me. To which he replied: “No problem and lead me through
the process. It all went smoothly until I told him I had just come to attend
one last Mass before I left the church for good. Suddenly he let out a chuckle
and said; “Well we are glad you came for one last Mass and we hope you’ll
decide to stay. I told him that wasn’t very likely but thanks anyway.” </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">With that ordeal over with, I proceeded on my way. When time
for Mass came I got dressed up in my finest Christmas attire and off to Mass I went.
I was supremely confident in my decision and all was well with the world. At
church the old childhood memories flooded in. The sights, the smell, the magic
of it all seemed to return as it had in days of my childhood. I chuckled to
myself remembering how I fell out of the pew fast asleep when I was five years
old at Midnight Mass. I remembered how we used to have a Chili supper after
Mass and then open our gifts. It all came flooding back to me as I sat in the
pew listening to the music and readings of the Mass. As time came for communion
to begin I panicked a bit as things had changed drastically since I had last
received communion. Gone were the altar rails and kneelers. Now everyone just
formed a line and went up to receive. I kept trying to peek around to the front
of the line to see what they were doing. As I got closer I could tell they
cupped their hands and said: “Amen” as they received the host in their hands.
OK! I thought to myself, I can do that. When my turn came I confidently stuck
out my cupped hands to receive and said “Amen! And the instant the host hit my
hands it felt like it weighed one hundred and fifty pounds. I hit the floor on
my knees so embarrassed I wanted to crawl under a pew. As I got back up with
help from Father Mike…he was grinning ear to ear. Good Lord, I thought to
myself…”What was that about?” I quickly went back to my pew and sat down
utterly befuddled. Then all of a sudden I heard Christ’s voice speak to me. “It
was I, I am truly present in the Eucharist and I am here for you. Welcome
Home!”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Needless to say I came home to my faith. Christ set me back
on the road to belief and love for Him. It is a decision I have never regretted
and even though I have not heard Him speak to me since that day, I know He is
real and loves us all. I was lost and He came to find me, just as the bible
says.</span></div>
Christine Trollingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652227373328487178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5286325816462750601.post-74952082079452384152015-04-20T17:16:00.004-07:002015-04-20T17:16:50.815-07:00Daddies Irish Wake
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.1in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Late
in January of 1984, I had driven 750 miles, to be with my father as he
underwent his latest Cancer surgery. Each mile of the trip, my mind was
clicking off the years, which had been spent at my father’s knee. Years of
always knowing my Dad was there for me. Years that now threatened to come to
and end.</span><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.1in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Just
as my heart and mind had feared, the surgery did not go well. The doctors
quickly opened my father up and closed him again. As the surgery was much
shorter than </span><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">predicted,
I knew the news was not good by how quickly the doctors came out to talk to my
Mom and I.</span><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.1in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Parting
with a loved one is truly one of the hardest things we must do in this life.
But, in my family, we always had a clear perspective of the beginning; middle
and end of life on this good green earth, as my Dad like to call it. </span><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.1in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It was
a perspective, which my father had learned from his father, and generations
before them had handed this Irish Wisdom down to each succeeding generation. </span><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.1in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New;">My Dad was always such an inspiration. He possessed
a special Irish sense of humor, which contained wisdom, love and great trust in
God and His care for us all. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.1in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New;">When the Doctor told my Dad he could do nothing more
to stop the cancer spread, my Dad pondered this for a moment, looked the Doctor
in the eye and with a weak, but familiar grin, said: “Well now, It’s January
and Saint Patty’s day would be a perfect time for an Irish wake don’t you
think? </span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: Courier New;"> </span></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.1in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New;">I have always thought it was such a sad thing that
the poor bloke who died, never got to enjoy his last party.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.1in;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Courier New;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.1in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New;">With this seemingly amusing statement, the doctor
just agreed, but silently shook his head later, as he told us; Dad was very
weak and probably would not last but another week or two at most. Obviously,
the doctor did not know my father well. Dad made out a list of final things he
needed </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.1in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New;">to get done. On the top of his list was to throw his
own Irish wake on Saint Patrick’s day – which was more than two months away.
Even more startling, to those who did not know him, was a list of things Dad
wrote on his personal calendar covering the whole year of 1984 until Valentines
Day of 1985. The doctors of course humored my Dad and all the while were busy
planning Dad’s hospice care and the end of his life, which, they were certain,
would be just a few short days away.</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.1in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New;">With a week of recovery from the last surgery gone
by, my Dad had enough of doctors and hospitals. He decided he wanted to go home
to die. The doctors agreed and so we took Dad home, for what we thought would
be a short time. </span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: Courier New;"> </span></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.1in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New;">Even we could not envision that Dad would live much
longer. He was so frail and weak the end looked imminent.</span></div>
<o:p><span style="font-family: Courier New;"> </span></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.1in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New;">My father was to surprise us, one and all. One day,
a few days after he returned home, he disappeared when mom was shopping. Now
that was no easy feat, since he was bedridden and on oxygen, but Dad had gotten
up, dressed, and walked over to the funeral home to plan his </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.1in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New;">his Irish wake. He expected his good friend Randy,
the undertaker to help him pull it off. And while he was at it, he made sure to
make all of his funeral arrangements and have Randy take him to pick out the
gravestone. My Dad never let the moss grow under his feet in good times or in
bad, and this situation was to be no different.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.1in;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Courier New;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.1in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New;">As the weeks passed, Dad seemed to grow stronger
just by anticipating his goal of spending one last Saint Patrick’s day with his
friends. Never mind it was to be his own wake…that thought didn’t faze him at
all. If anything it seemed to give him strength and joy to be checking each
item off his calendar, which he felt the “Good Lord,” </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.1in;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Courier New;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.1in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New;">wanted him to get done before heading Home, as Dad
called it…”Home to Heaven after finishing his mission.” </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.1in;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Courier New;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.1in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New;">To everyone’s amazement, Dad made it to Saint
Patrick’s day. His <i>“Irish Wake”</i> was one which none of us shall ever
forget. Forget about tears, Dad would have none of that. There was joy, and
story telling and remembering all the good times of our lives together. With my
father’s special love of the bizarre, he also had his casket placed properly in
the living room, with himself ensconced, as any self-respecting deceased should
be. His best friends from childhood played up the Irish wake to the hilt, with
Irish toasts and general foolishness born of the spirit of love. One of Dad’s
buddies reached over and stuck his hand in Dad’s pocket to turn it inside out.
It was an old joke among friends, that whether they were rich or poor, they
would always stick together. And in the end, they would all go out with empty
pockets, except for their rosary and an abundance of trust in God’s love and
Mercy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.1in;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Courier New;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.1in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New;">All in all, it was an Irish sendoff, which was
better than any Saint Patrick’s Day we had ever celebrated in past </span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.1in;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Courier New;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.1in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New;">years. From that day to the day he died, my father
remained optimistic and happy. Of course, his doctor’s </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.1in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New;">were a bit stymied to say the least. Dad lived right
up until the day he had marked off the last “<b><i>to do,”</i></b> item on his
calendar. The only item not crossed off was Valentines Day 1985, the day he
died. Dad passed away shortly after midnight and as if to punctuate his love
for us, his grave marker, when it came, was heart shaped and engraved with
Roses and Butterflies. I guess the “Good Lord” must have agreed with my Dad,
that he had a few loose ends to tie up before heading “HOME.”</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
Christine Trollingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652227373328487178noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5286325816462750601.post-2277029364097894512015-04-20T17:04:00.000-07:002015-04-20T17:04:10.101-07:00A Mutt Named Gyp
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">On a spring vacation, in the 1950’s, my family went to South
Dakota. It was a combination trip of sightseeing, and visiting relatives. It was
exciting to visit the Black Hills, Mount Rushmore, and other historic places.
But the visiting relative’s part wasn’t all that much fun for me as an eight
year old. I was definitely bored and quite shy as we stopped along the way to
see various relatives I had never met. By the time we got to a Great Aunt Kitty’s
house (my Grandmothers Sister), I stubbornly refused to get out of the car.
Little did I know, that Great Aunt Kitty house was going to prove to be the
best part of my vacation that summer, and provide the best medicine a shy and
soon to be crippled, eight year old would ever receive. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After several tries by my parents, to convince me to be
polite and come meet Aunt Kitty had failed, Aunt Kitty took matters into her
own hands. She approached me and knelt down beside the car door and whispered;
“Won’t you please come help me? I have a litter of new puppies, and one is very
shy and scared. He won’t come to anyone. But maybe he will come to you as he
knows you’re shy too.” </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Well, shy or not, I figured I needed to try and help a poor
puppy that was scared just like me and off we went to the barn. There in one of
the horse stalls was a Momma dog and four pups. Three of them were running
around and yipping and barking like any happy puppy does. But tucked away in a
dark corner under some horse tack and saddles, was one little male puppy that
was hunkered down and trying not to be seen, just like I had been doing in the
confines of the car. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I got on my knees and crawled into the tiny dark space and
hunkered down with him. I decided maybe we could hide out together until
everyone else went to the house and he and I could just hang out together,
avoiding all the noise and people neither of us were interested in being with.
After the adults left us, the Pup slowly began to lick me and then began to
play. He and I spent most of the visit running around inside the horse barn and
exploring the world together. By the time supper time came, I still was not
going to go inside, but Aunt Kitty said I could bring the puppy with me. No one
could pry the Pup away from me.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">By the next morning, the relationship with the puppy had
become concrete. No one could separate us and it became another ordeal for my
parents to try and get me to leave with them. Again, Aunt Kitty came up with
the solution. She offered the Pup to me to take home as my very own. It sounded
great, but my mother wanted no part of the idea. After more tears and refusals
from me to leave the pup, my Dad said; “Well, that Pup would probably fetch
Aunt Kitty a good price at the auction barn, so we really couldn’t possibly
take her Prize Puppy.” At which I promptly got my little purse and took out the
rest of my allowance that I had saved to buy souvenirs on our trip. I had a
whole dollar and some change, which to me was a lot of money and offered it to
Aunt Kitty who of course accepted it as though it were a vast fortune.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">By this time my parents decided the only way they were going
to win was to give into me and let me have the dog. By the time we got back home
to our farm, spring break was over and I was back in school, but rushed home
eagerly every afternoon to be with my new companion who I had named Chip, but
my dad jokingly called him Gyp the mutt, (a farmer slang word for worthless)
because the once shy pup, was the terror of the farm yard, chasing the chickens
and the cattle and everything that moved.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Shortly after returning to school, we were all vaccinated
with the very first Polio vaccine, which proved to be a disaster for me.
Instead of just a mild reaction to the inoculation, I was one of a few thousand
children across the country, who actually got a full blown case of Polio from
the vaccine. The lab had inadvertently not killed the entire live polio virus
in a few batches and it had disastrous results for the children who got the bad
vaccine. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As spring turned into summer, I had spent most of it in the
hospital and when I came home, I was no longer just a shy child, but one who
could no longer walk. Chip a.k.a, Gyp, as my father called him, was again, my
sole comfort and interest in life. From the moment I came home, Chip never left
my side. Through all the painful therapy I had to undergo, Chip, was there and
when I would refuse to try and walk, he would jump at me as though to say…”You
can do it! Come play.” He instinctively began to take things from me and hold
them just out of my reach, so I would have to stretch and work my muscles to
retrieve them. That was something no therapist could get me to do, but Chip
made it worth the effort. He knew how to make work seem like play. By the time
fall rolled around, I was able to stand and Chip was always there to encourage
me to try harder and take another step and another. Chip, knew that deep inside
all I needed was encouragement that one day we would again chase the cows and
chickens together. And so it was, that I learned to try a little harder,
stretch myself beyond what I thought I could do, and achieve the freedom to
live and love and trust in a dog my father called <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gyp…The best bargain I ever bought, even
though he would never be worth much as a farm dog. He proved himself a wise and
wonderful friend until the day he died. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
Christine Trollingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652227373328487178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5286325816462750601.post-47716812384522148852015-02-09T10:24:00.007-08:002015-02-09T10:26:50.410-08:00The Battle of the Signs<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Election
season is always a bit crazy in Missouri. This 2006 election season proved to
be one of those especially whacky and cantankerous election years. Due to the
push to pass an Amendment to our state constitution, which would permit human
cloning, the battle of the “Vote No” vs. “Vote yes” on Human Cloning
began.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The stakes were high as such an
amendment, would constitutionally protect human cloning.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Our
signs for a NO Vote would be defaced or removed in the dark of night by the
opponents we faced. Night after night, the sign thieves would come and remove
the signs. Some even resorted to defacing property in their nightly raids. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Throughout
the month of October the battle raged. By the end of the month it had become a
fact of nightly attacks upon our private property an especially our signs.
Obviously the sign raiders didn’t know it is not nice to fool Mother Nature or
little old Irish ladies on a <i>“Mission for God.”</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">On
the morning of October 30<sup>th</sup>, I had had enough of being Mrs. Nice old
lady who patiently takes in and puts out her signs everyday to protect them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">I
decided to take some action. Stealing myself for the battle ahead, I laid my
battle plan carefully. With a glint in my eye, I set off on a shopping trip,
which I must say I enjoyed much more than I usually do shopping trips. First
stop was at Wal-mart’s toy department. I spent considerable time carefully
wheeling around the department searching for the perfect ammunition. From
there, it was on to the grocery store. Wheeling through the aisle on the
handicap cart, I quickly assembled my remaining arsenal of weapons. A large jar
of honey, motor oil and black trash bags. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">This
night the raiders were going to pay for their crimes!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I carefully painted the edges of my signs
with the honey to make them nice and sticky. Then I cut up and laid down the
trash bags, dribbled more honey and motor oil on them and covered them with
leaves, also duly baptized with honey and motor oil. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">When
night fell I was ready and waiting for the battle to begin. Dressed in my
finest Annie Oakley attire, armed with my cap gun, a spotlight and a primed
garden hose, I nestled down in my bunker to wait for the enemy. Hours went by
while I warmed myself with thoughts of the sweet victory I was about to
undertake. It was a fire fueled inside of me with a resolve General Custer
would have been proud of.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Three
hours later, my resolve was still hot, but the cold and chill was setting into
my old bones. I was beginning to think the raiders were not going to engage the
battle on my street this particular night. Then, just as I was preparing to
give up and surrender my battle station for the night, the eerie light of car
headlights began to glow softly on my honey/oil coated signs. The enemy had
arrived!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Suddenly,
from the driveway, two large dark figures sneaking across my yard came into
view! Holding my fire and waiting for the perfect moment, my heart was racing!
As providence would have it, both of the enemy combatants reached their
designated sign targets at precisely the same moment! As they reached out to
kidnap and trash my signs, I hit the button on my floodlight! With cap gun
blazing and my walker to steady my aim, I gave out a battle cry that any Marine
Sergeant would surely have approved!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Viva
La Christo! I yelled at the top of my lungs!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>POP!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Take
that you rascals! POP!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Viva
the Un-born! POP!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Down
with Sign killers! POP!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">This
is for trying to fool little old ladies! POP!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">By
this time, the miscreants were staring me dead in the eye! All 5 foot 2 inches
of me, dressed to fight for the unborn. Proudly welding my cap gun and walker
like a pro. And in about the same instant, the enemy realized they were covered
with goo! With slips and slides on the slick trash bags, they quickly began their
retreat. Scrambling back toward their car, with leaves and honey and motor oil
flying, they threw themselves into the car and sped off into the dark Missouri
night! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">I
did feel a bit concerned that they ignored my offer for some water to wash off
their wounds before fleeing, but such is life, in the Battle for Justice! I
hope they slept well, I know I sure did.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Copyright 2006</span><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Christine Trollingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652227373328487178noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5286325816462750601.post-2263630589928956662015-02-08T06:47:00.000-08:002015-03-08T08:38:50.079-07:00My Brother My Friend. Vietnam MemorialAs I approach the wall, in the early morning light, the sky is gently showering everything with dew. Here at the break of day's new dawning, I come much like Mary to visit the empty tomb. I come not with spices but with my heart wanting to speak to you once again. Today I come to meet with my brother, my friend. I know deep within me that we are still kindred in spirit, together and yet apart. <br />
<br />
We have shared the days of our childhood and we have felt the sting of death. Yet, for all of this, nothing can really ever separate us.not even a broken heart. William.my sweet William.how I long to see you once again. Can you hear me? Do you see me as I search for your beloved name? Many years have passed since I last spoke with you and beheld your dear sweet face. Yet it seems like only yesterday that I stood beside your open grave.<br />
<br />
Brother, teacher, companion and friend,how the memories do ebb and flow. Can you see me? Do you hear me as I search for your beloved name? Suddenly, as though from a lighthouse.a tiny ray of sun seems to point out your beloved name.Billy.dearest brother, I know that you still watch over me.<br />
<br />
Can you feel the mist that is falling? Do you see how the dew drops look just like teardrops as I caress your beloved name? I counted 16 teardrops falling.one for each letter and character in your name. Do you remember bat-light, butterflies and fishing in the rain? Do you remember how you taught me to fish at <a href="https://encrypted.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=11&cad=rja&uact=8&sqi=2&ved=0CF8QFjAK&url=http%3A%2F%2Filovelakemac.com%2F&ei=yGz8VMWfFIWcyQTUroB4&usg=AFQjCNG3AbIz6emr3O61ioRfTdY0J7JVnw&sig2=7fXdD_nNOSuz04RSnx7u0Q&bvm=bv.87611401,d.aWw"><span style="color: #1a0dab;">Lake McConaughy</span></a> and then threw them all back into the lake again? You said: "We should never waste God's beauty or abuse the bounty of his land".<br />
<br />
Do you fish the lakes of heaven, still teaching the little ones? Do you walk the fields with Jesus and. OH! Do you still sing slightly out of tune? Here in the misty morning sunrise.I feel close to you once again. I can almost hear you singing."Halleluiah! To Christ our King!" Best of all, sweet William.it sounds perfectly in tune. William, my sweet William.I shall always love you so. Billy, dearest brother.it is time for me to go. I know now, deep in my heart, that you are well and happy. Now not even 16 teardrops falling can take away my joy for you. "Vaya Con Dios," until we meet again. <br />
<br />
Copyright 1990Christine Trollingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652227373328487178noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5286325816462750601.post-70196239317008943352015-02-04T14:20:00.002-08:002015-02-04T14:59:21.231-08:00Help Save the ChildrenHelp us raise money for these orphans in Nigeria who's parents were murdered by the Boko Haram<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Q_vl3eK6JdY/VNKkM19fiMI/AAAAAAAAAbE/mhe25bBC8cY/s1600/10966506_1538734626393037_391664367_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Q_vl3eK6JdY/VNKkM19fiMI/AAAAAAAAAbE/mhe25bBC8cY/s1600/10966506_1538734626393037_391664367_n.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.youcaring.com/help-a-neighbor/please-help-the-orphans-in-igbo-land-nigeria-/302014">http://www.youcaring.com/help-a-neighbor/please-help-the-orphans-in-igbo-land-nigeria-/302014</a><br />
Christine Trollingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652227373328487178noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5286325816462750601.post-63679908252518285832015-01-09T07:36:00.002-08:002015-01-09T07:36:30.325-08:00Out of the mouth's of Babe'sSeveral years ago a friend of mine had a baby. It was their second child. Their 3 year old little girl kept asking if she could be alone with her baby brother. Finally the parents agreed as she kept asking day after day. To be safe they left the baby monitor on so they could hear what was going on in the baby's room. All of a sudden they heard the little girl say "Now tell me what Jesus looks like. You just came from him but I am old and I forgot."<br />
<br />
Christine Trollingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652227373328487178noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5286325816462750601.post-1682692230388983562014-12-24T08:47:00.003-08:002014-12-26T06:54:42.474-08:00Santa was a Cowboy<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Christmas
approaches swiftly again this year. The memories of Christmas on the Plains of
Nebraska, in the 1950’s flit’s through my mind. </span><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">One such cherished memory is of a Blizzard, which struck
a few days before Christmas, in 1955.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Early
one morning that particular Christmas week, we awoke to the sight of blowing
and heavy falling snow. It arrived with such force the farmyard became almost
invisible. Immediately, Dad called us all together to detail the job ahead. The
animals needed feeding and the cows needed milking. Even though most
townspeople could safely snuggle in their beds to wait out the storm, as a farm
family, we had duties to care for the livestock even in a blinding snowstorm.
Dad carefully tied us all together, using rope so that we could reach the safety
of the barn for the task at hand. Admonishing us to watch out for one another
and stay close, we began our morning with a seriousness born of life and
survival on the plains in winter. Even as children, we were aware of the
dangers of getting lost in a blizzard. People were known to die of the cold
within a few feet of their own front door. The winds swooped in with nothing to
hold them back and drifts quickly became a blind mass of whiteout on the once
flat and clear landscape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">With
each of us bundled in coats, boots and mittens we struggled through the
blinding snow out to the barnyard. Slowly feeling our way along the fence
posts, we had to shout to keep track of one another as we struggled against
nature to reach our goal. After several hours of working with the animals and
securing them in the barn, we struggled back through the still swirling snow.
As we reached our final goal of the house, Mom was waiting with Hot Cocoa and a
warm fire burning in the kitchen stove for us to warm ourselves up again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The
rest of the morning we spent snuggled in the warm kitchen, making Christmas
breads and cookies for the coming Christmas celebration. Covered with flour and
sneaking bites of cookie dough kept we children occupied, while Dad kept watch
over the weather conditions. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">By
early afternoon, the snow had stopped and it became apparent we would not be
going anywhere soon. The snowdrifts were several feet deep and the road was
buried. We knew it could be days before the snowplows came our way from the
County Works Dept.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With the visibility
improved my Dad bundled up to set out in pursuit of any stranded travelers he
might assist. We lived about a mile from a main highway and anyone who might
have been stranded would soon succumb to the cold. Firing up the old “John
Deer” tractor, Dad left to pursue his goal of checking the roads for possible
victims of the Fury of the storm. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">By
dusk, Mom was visibly worried and we children became quiet. We joined our hands
in prayer and quietly huddled together praying our Daddy would safely make it
home. As darkness began to fall in earnest, we suddenly heard the sound of our
“Old John Deer” slowly making its way back into the yard. With a collective
sigh of relief, we all ran to the front porch to usher Dad back into the warmth.
Much to our surprise the first person through the door was a stranger. Dad
introduced the man as Chuck. Dad explained that just about dark he had decided
to give up the search, when he had spotted a Pick-up truck buried in the snow
bank along the old highway exit road.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">For
the rest of Christmas week Chuck worked along side all of us and proved himself
a friend in deed and in word. Chuck, we soon learned, was an itinerate Cowboy.
He had been traveling from Texas to begin a job on the McGinley ranch, a few
miles farther east from us. The next morning, when he entered the barn to help
out with chores, our newest horse Toni suddenly began banging the stall and
whinnying. Toni immediately greeted Chuck with a friendly but insistent nudge
at Chucks pockets. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Much
to every ones surprise, Toni and Chuck already knew one another. Chuck had
worked on the King ranch in Texas when Toni was there as a colt. Chuck had
saddle broke him and taught him to cut cattle when Toni was just a young colt
in Texas. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Dad
had not used Toni much as yet. Toni had proved a bit skitterish when we first
brought him home. Dad was still working with him to gentle him out. Chuck
immediately showed us that Toni was a pro with the right stuff. Chuck and Toni
were a team in Texas and soon Toni warmed up to us all. Chuck showed us all the
special things, which made Toni the champion cattle horse he was. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">First
and foremost, Toni loved Cotton cake. Cotton cake, which Chuck always had in
his pocket brought out the best in Toni from then on. Within a day, Dad and the
rest of us could get Toni to do all we asked of him. Toni was now a real part
of our family farm team… thanks to a stranger named Chuck.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As
Christmas week progressed, the roads were still impassable with no sign of the
snowplows in sight. The phone lines were still down and we had no way to
communicate with the outside world. We were so looking forward to the Christmas
Pageant at St Elizabeth’s Parish followed by Christmas Eve mass. My brother
Billy was supposed to be a Wiseman in the Play, and I was suppose to be an
angel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was no way we could get to
town in all that snow. Fearing Christmas would be canceled; we children grew
quiet and somber. We began to fuss that even Santa could not get to our house
this particular year. Our Letters had never been delivered to him because of
the snowstorm. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> On the
day before Christmas Eve Chuck, our newfound guest came up with a plan. A plan
that would make Santa and his reindeer proud. Chuck went out to the barn and
saddled up Toni. He admonished us all, not to give up. He would set off for
town and guide the snowplows to our farm to clear the roads. Dad was a bit
hesitant, but Chuck assured him that he and Toni had traveled many miles
together in Texas dust storms and could get through the snow on the plains of
Nebraska. Dad warmed to the idea eventually, and saddled up our faithful old
mare, ”Lady”, to make sure Chuck and Toni did not get lost. Dad knew the plains
and the land well, even when it was buried in snow. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">With a
cheerful wave they set off, loping belly deep through the snow drifts. Later
that day, the sound of snow plows brought smiles of joy and relief to our
faces. With Chuck and Toni leading the way, the plows cleared our roads and
made it possible for us to get to town the following day. Chuck was able to get
his truck out of the snow bank and be on his way to his new job. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Early
Christmas Eve night, before we went to town, the front door of our little
farmhouse opened with a bang! In came Santa to pay us a personal visit. In his
bag were all the very toys we children had lamented that Santa would not bring
this year. Even if he could have made it through the snow, we were sure he
would not have gotten our Christmas list. This particular year though, Santa
was wearing cowboy boots, and seemed to have a very distinct “Texas” drawl when
he exclaimed; “HO HO HO! Merry Christmas Ya’all!” </span><br />
Copyright 2000</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
Christine Trollingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652227373328487178noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5286325816462750601.post-70123370294703643762014-12-19T10:16:00.003-08:002014-12-19T10:16:47.276-08:00The Christmas Doll
<br />
<div class="MsoTitle" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">During the Christmas season of 1958, my family
was going through some pretty rough times. It had been a very difficult couple
of years for my parents. In 1955, polio had rocked our world, followed by the
loss of my fathers business and our family farm. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoBlockText" style="margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New;">In the late summer of 1956, our little family farm, as
well as my fathers furniture business, had been sold at auction to pay off my
family’s considerable debts. My father had never blinked nor considered the
cost, which would be necessary for me to overcome the crippling effects of
polio. In order for me to learn to walk once again, my Dad totally neglected
the farm and his business. He never left my side throughout all the months of
my recuperation. And he never flinched at spending every spare dime we had, to
find the medical help available to help me regain my ability to walk again.
Unfortunately, this lead to our losing all the temporal things, which we owned,
with the exception of the clothes on our back. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoBlockText" style="margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Courier New;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoBlockText" style="margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New;">Looking back, I can still see my fathers unwavering
faith, as we all stood on the grounds of our little farm for the auction to
begin. My mother was understandably beside herself. Of course she was worried
to death about where we would live and how we would survive, but I was
devastated, when she burst into tears and lamented that it was all my fault for
getting polio. My dad quickly picked me up into his arms and said: “Margaret,
we can always find another job, and another home, but we could never replace
our Christy.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoBlockText" style="margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Courier New;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoBlockText" style="margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New;">And so our journey began. We had
always been a farm family nestled in the familiar sand hills of Nebraska. With
no money to start over, my dad’s family scraped together the money for us to
move to Texas, where a Marine buddy of my fathers, had a furniture store. MR.
King had offered my dad the position of manager for his store and a small house
for us to live in. After a year in Texas, we moved back home as my mother hated
Texas and all it stood for. Mom was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Once
again, with the help of family and Mr. King, we scraped up the money to make the
journey back home to our roots. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoBlockText" style="margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt 0in;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Courier New;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoBlockText" style="margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New;">By the time Christmas rolled
around, once again in 1958, it didn’t look like we would have a big celebration
that year either. Mom worked scrubbing floors to scrape up extra money for our
Christmas dinner. That was one thing my mother missed the most…the Christmas
table loaded with all the tradition Christmas foods. No matter what else might
come our way, she was determined we would have a wonderful meal to celebrate
the birth of the Christ Child.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Even a modest Christmas celebration that
year, was almost entirely out of the question. Of course, children never seem
to give up their dreams nor understand that Santa can’t always provide the
things we want. But I, in my child’s mind, had no doubt that Santa could do
anything, no matter how bad things may look. I just knew he would bring me a
doll for Christmas. Not just any doll, mind you. He was going to bring me a
grown up lady doll, dressed in a formal gown with a tiara and high heels. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">As the weeks of Advent arrived,I sat down and
wrote a note to Santa. I had decided that even though he had stopped coming by
our house, because we were so poor, maybe, just maybe he would have an extra
lady doll which he could drop off for me that year. My note of course explained
that it was ok, if he could not bring me a new lady doll, but if he could spare
a watch for my sister Peg, a sling shot for my brother Bill and maybe a nice
fire truck for my little brother, I would be very happy with that. And most of
all, if he couldn’t do that, could he please just leave my mommy a note, and
let her know that it would be ok and that God still loved us? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">That Christmas morning, we all gathered
around the tree as usual before Mass. Wonder of wonders, besides our stocking
stuffed with oranges and apples, each of us had a gift carefully wrapped and
placed beneath the tree. Billy’s gift was a slingshot, Mikey a fire truck, and
Peg a watch. And wonder of wonders, I received the most beautiful lady doll I
had ever envisioned. The best gift of all was for my Mom. It was a beautiful
Christmas card, which exclaimed God loved her and all of us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0.1in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New";">Years later, I would learn that one of the
woman my mother worked for, had found my mother in tears one day. Mom, had my
note in her hand and was sobbing about the fact, there was no way she could
provide the gifts I had requested. Lila wasn’t wealthy either. She and her
husband Frank lived in the back of their little shoe shop. Lila took the time
to remake and old doll, which had belonged to her daughter. She had lovingly
sewed an elegant silk dress out of one of her own dresses. How she managed to
find the Tiara, I do not know. But the doll was more beautiful than any in the
toy stores that I have ever seen. The slingshot, was one Frank made by hand.
Peg’s watch had belonged to Lila, a gift from her first husband who had died in
World War II before she married Frank. The fire truck had belonged to Frank’s
son when he was a child. Frank had repainted it for Mike. The best gift of all
of course, was the beautiful card to my Mom, which assured us of God’s love.</span></div>
Christine Trollingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01652227373328487178noreply@blogger.com0