My Life As A Squirrel Mom

There seems to be this misconception held tightly in our youth - "Once I reach 18...21...25...(ect) I will be grown." The real truth is that with each changing phase of life there is growing up to do. Often times, the growing happens at such a slow pace that we are unaware of the changes taking place as our beliefs become more solidified, our footing begins to feel more secure, our purpose is more sure, and our more frequent groans in standing up signal the wear our bodies have taken. But then there are other times in which death and trauma speed the growing up process along in the blink of an eye. In those moments, we're left breathless, confused, stumbling, depressed and longing for what might have been. The story of my time as a squirrel mom was dropped right into that darkest part of depression and loss, woven in such a way that only an omniscient God could orchestrate. 

Those that know me, or have read any of my ramblings, are aware that in 2015 we said goodbye to my gma after a 4mth marathon of caregiving. The toll and change that journey took on my being forever changed who I am today. It was during this time that my secret was discovered, as momma found the burn marks down my back left from the constant usage of heat packs used to just make it through that fast paced time. Just as I promised, I sought treatment once gma was Home and found out the diagnosis that would again force me to grow up a little more - osteoarthritis of the spinal column resulting in disintegrating disc disorder. All fancy talk for - one day you'll be a walking, talking, real life Woverine. (That was the easiest way to describe it to the kids, who loved Marvel comics as much as their dad and I did, although adamantium is not an option. My plates and screws are all titanium.) 

During this same time, my Aunt Suzie's battle with metastatic breast cancer waged on as treatment after treatment left the Dr saying, "We'll have to try (this) now...." We knew she was getting weaker, tireder, weary but not even her Dr could admit this was a battle that was being lost. 

In March of 2017 I had the first of many spinal related surgeries. For reasons unknown still to this day, my Dr prescribed EIGHT WEEKS OF BEDREST. You read that correctly - EIGHT. Everyone else's lives continued on as mine stood still, or rather laid still, as I grew up in a totally different way through this journey. My mental health tanked and depression loomed large just around the corner. But there was one other person in my life who, though she had not been prescribed bedrest, would find herself with so little energy that her bed, her chair, had become the tiny vantage point from which she was living also - my Aunt Suzie. 

During those eight weeks we talked everyday. We giggled as we tried to imagine all the things the twins were doing, we prayed as we talked about her "big" grandkids and how their school years were going, we talked about my kiddos activities and how they were doing, we imagined heaven and what it must be like for Mawmaw and PaPaw to be reunited after more than 20 years. We were peas in pods, separated by a few miles, confined to our recovery places, throwing digital glitter back and forth between texts and Facebook messenger. Once I was fiiiiiinally released from my prison, the first place I went was to spend the entire day with her. It. Was. The. Best. Day. Ever. 

Then, the unthinkable happened only 3 weeks later. The toll that the battle against cancer took on her body was just too much. We were forced to say goodbye and "we'll see you when we get there." My teeter-tottering mental health could not take anymore as I slipped into the darkest place anyone could ever imagine. 

The only way I can think to describe what I was experiencing is a muted, grey-scale world now devoid of all joy, happiness and laughter. There were birds, but they didn't sing. There were trees but they had no color. There were children but they had no mother who could do all of the things they needed done. Over the next year, I would beg doctors for help out of that place as I did the bare minimum to ensure my family's continued existence. For days, I would only get out of bed to take them where they had to be. For weeks, I would go with little to no self-care - I couldn't tell you when my last shower was or the last time I picked up my toothbrush. As life continued on out there, the darkness of my spiral continued as tears soaked the pillow I just couldn't seem to lift my head off of. 

Then one day, as though dropped out of heaven itself, a tiny baby squirrel fell from its nest and into our lives. Her eyes were still closed and her fur was downy soft. The big rehabber in Magnolia was full so what was I to do with this baby squirrel??? I reached out to Ms Natalie, a childhood friend of our parents, about what to do for this tiny baby I knew nothing about caring for. She walked me through that day and through the night to care for Smeagol, named such because it was our dogs Sam and Frodo who found her. I was finally able to identify this cry I had heard so many times outside as a baby squirrel's cry. So the next day, when a storm blew through and downed a tree in our yard, that cry I had never known before could be heard loud and clear near the tree's base. There were two more baby squirrels now in my hands with no momma who came to retrieve them. 

The darkness and fog I had been existing in had to change in those moments. With nowhere to take these 3 babies, I would HAVE TO get up. I would HAVE TO set feed schedules. I would HAVE TO begin to live again if they were going to have a fighting chance. And so it was like the breath of God, breathed life back into Lazarus's lungs, I had to make the conscious choice to step out of the cave of death's shadow where I had been.

Over the course of the next few months, there were 3hr feedings, eyes that would open, mouths that would squeak, and little legs that would jump from side to side in the bird cage that sat on my bedside table. Smeagol, Dwight and Chuck Norris (named such because the kids were afraid he wasn't going to make it through the night) went EVERYWHERE with us. Football games, church, co-op classes. Their intense schedule MADE ME grow up again. 

It was through those 3 little lives that I would begin to hear the birds sing - I remember that day clearly, I texted mom when it happened. The trees had color again and flowers appeared out of nowhere. But more than all that, those 3 little lives gave me back the 4 little lives that needed me the most, MY BABIES. My babies were anxious to help with the squirrel babies. They diligently watched the clock for feeding times. They learned to wipe squirrel heinies alongside their momma. They loved and doted on these precious creatures God had literally dropped into our laps. There was laughter again. There was happiness once more. There was joy none of us had known for what felt like a long time. 

Who knew that squirrels would be the catalyst God would use to MAKE ME grow up when all I had wanted to do was mourn for the rest of my life. Who knew that squirrels would be what bonded me to my children again after the year of emotional neglect reeked havoc in our lives. Who knew? Most rehabbers. The few that I've talked with have similar stories - in desperate times that demanded desperate intervention, God began healing their soul through His Creation and our original mandate to remain watch over the tiniest of creatures He gave. 

My life as a squirrel mom came to a pause with the death of Chuckie, the last to survive all those years. Oh, how fitting his name turned out to be. The memories of their antics play sweetly over and over in my head. The graciousness of their presence in our lives could never be overstated. The gratitude I have for the 3 little lives dropped into mine could only be stated as such - God gave them to us when they needed us most, but also when we needed them the most too. And we all grew up a little more. 

Mundane Faithfulness, Eternal Impact

As cousins, nieces, nephews and subsequent generations of all of those met yesterday to lay to rest the last of the original Rutledge children, there was laughter, there were memories, there were tears. Knowing that Aunt Janet was reunited in the blink of an eye with Uncle Joe, Grandma and Grandpa Rutledge, Uncle Harlow, Mawmaw, Aunt Bobbie, Aunt Mert, and her twin, Uncle TJ gave much more than mere solace in the face of our loss - it gives us great Hope.

Sometime in my teen years, I began to push back and honestly resent the fact that allllll my family did at gatherings was talk about Jesus. "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. Can't we talk about anything else?" I was headed straight toward rebellion and the consequences that would accompany my choices. And so I became hostile toward any chatter that served to remind me of how far my heart had wandered. You see, some of our journeys take the "scenic route" - alongside the cliffs and overhangs as we edge along the rocky outcrops just to see how close we can get without falling over. Some lessons are to be learned firsthand. Some hearts must experience the weight of wandering before they can be bound to Jesus, as the old, familiar hymn alludes.

Yet even in our lessons there is mercy we don't deserve and grace we couldn't earn. My family has been the embodiment of that mercy and grace here in earth. What others would see has everyday, mundane living has been the gateway through which Brian and I have seen God's grace poured out repeatedly in tangible and encouraging ways. 

As my second cousins, Aunt Janet's sons, offered glimpses into who she was at different points in her life, an overwhelming humility engulfed me as I stood there, wondering if anyone else knew how deeply the gift she and Uncle Joe had given us in the early months of our marriage affected who we had become.

Two weeks shy of high school graduation, Brian and I carried a secret that would soon reveal itself as we would become parents in six short months. We had nothing. His lease was up within weeks. He had just begun working at Dr Pepper and I was only working part time at a kids' clothing store. In the days before the pre-existing clauses were written out of insurance policies, my pregnancy pre-dated both his employment and our marriage. We spent the next three weeks attempting to shore up any kind of assistance and housing we could. Only we didn't qualify for anything. $5 a month too much for assistance. $5 a month not enough to rent an apartment. We were so engrossed in our own attempts to salvage something, anything before we would have to tell our families. To no avail. 

As news of our expected baby traveled, of course, it got bigger and more convoluted. The rumors ranged from me not knowing who the father was to this being a plan we had come up with. The treatment I, in particular, received from former church members and deacons ranged from ignoring me completely, except the look of scorn, in Brian's presence to pointing across the aisles, whispering to one another, then walking away in plain view as I watched. Not only was I carrying the weight of the life growing inside me with no real way to provide for him but nearly every way I turned offered a new hurt in a different capacity. I was drowning in the sea of judgment and uncertainty. 

That was when that family I had grown so irritated with took me into their arms, unconditionally. No one made me feel the shame others had heaped on me. No one whispered or pointed when I walked in the door. No one even looked at me skeptically, much less scornfully. All that I received from them was love, compassion, genuine care and excitement once the numbness of our announcement wore off. 

Then, I got a phone call from Mawmaw. Aunt Janet and Uncle Joe had bought a house in Huntsville but their house in Spring had not sold yet. They ASKED us to live there until the old home could be sold in order to take care of the yard and the pool. Our only rent payment would be the work we would do around their new farm. Yes, you read that correctly - NO RENT. We knew nothing about pools or large plots of land. I didn't even know a convection oven was a thing. There were deer every evening and the most beautiful rises in that kitchen. 

The three short months we lived in that gigantic house (it sure seemed gigantic with just the two of us there) allowed us to pay out of pocket a large portion of Kendall's delivery. It wasn't our home but we were allowed to call it home at a time when we needed it most. They gave us a three month jump start into adulthood, and parenthood, that could never be repaid. As a woman and stay at home mom also, it has never been lost on me that my Aunt Janet let me cook in her kitchen before she got the chance to even unbox a single pot. My Uncle Joe let us swim and relax in the pool before he even put a little pinky toe in it. We got to enjoy the quietness our hearts and souls needed in the refuge their farm gave. But more than all that, the hands on, wandering heart lesson I learned through their grace, mercy and love was that I CAN serve others and Jesus in everyday, mundane faithfully. Checking pool levels and weeding the front flower bed. Sharing my space with others when they've got no where else to go. Giving a "hand up" to those that are desperate and wandering. 

As I stood there yesterday, I realized that most of my cousins had no idea of their quiet generosity to us as that scared, shaky footed, wounded young couple. They weren't in the business of advertising their love and grace but were about living it out, which in turn taught us all the more how to follow their example. The example they learned from Jesus Himself. 

So as one more of the Rutledges was welcomed Home, I am left here with grateful tears, a deep sense of gratitude and awe, and a once wandering heart bound to Jesus because all they did was talk about Him. And loved like He loves.