This dog.  I’m tellin’ ya folks, she’s full of wisdom.  I know you’re tired of reading about my puppy.  Frankly, I’m tired of writing about her.  But she just . . . . knows things.

I need to begin by telling you we almost lost Macie this month.  No, we weren’t out buying poster board and preparing to staple signs to telephone poles.  When I say ‘lost,’ I mean the dog almost died.  It’s a very long story, but it started with a lazier than usual pup that turned into a vomiting pup that turned into a pup who couldn’t even stand up.  The vet still doesn’t know what happened, but Macie’s liver was failing, and for a full week, we weren’t sure she was going to make it.  There was even talk of a blood transfusion at one point.  This was serious.

Now, before you start wondering just exactly what I’ve been praying about in regards to our puppy for the last eight months, I must reassure you that I did NOT want Macie to die.  Yes, there have been quite a few moments since we brought her home when I would have been perfectly happy to spend an afternoon stapling lost dog signs to telephone poles.  Still, I had no desire for the nemesis of my sanity to stop breathing at ten months of age.  It was a very scary week.  Surprisingly, however, although Macie could barely lift her head and orange liquids flowed from body parts that should never release liquids, I’ll be darned if that sick little critter didn’t teach me a lesson anyway.

If you didn’t know this already, there’s a reason people use the phrase “puppy dog eyes” and it ignites instant understanding.  Dogs don’t appear sick when they’re deathly ill.  They aren’t strangely thin or extremely pale.  But their eyes . . . oh my.  They become windows to the dog’s soul, and I realize that sounds absolutely insane, but people, it’s the honest to goodness truth.  Just thinking about the way Macie looked at me as the orange liquids flowed makes me wince.  Her eyes told me everything I needed to know about the way our puppy felt.  She was desperate. 

I wonder how many people would be saved if human eyes could convey such an acute need for someone, anyone, to reach out and help. 

I wonder how many times I’ve failed to notice that someone right beside me was in pain.  How often have I spent too little time with someone who was lonely?  How many times did I participate only half-heartedly in a conversation with someone who was hurting so badly, she didn’t know where to go, or who to turn to, or how to ask?

Human eyes can look sad.  They can look sick.  But I’ve never seen a human’s eyes look like Macie’s did the week she almost died. 

I suppose God created puppy dog eyes because dogs don’t have the capacity to communicate with speech.  They can’t tell us their stomach hurts worse than ever before or someone they love has broken their heart into a million pieces or their most important dream didn’t come true. (Wouldn’t you like to know what that dream would be, by the way?  It’s rainin’ bones, hallelujah, it’s rainin’ bones!)  Sorry. We’ll dive into dog dreams another day – it’s simply too good to dismiss.  My point, however, is that canines can’t tell us when they need help.  They have to convey messages in another way. 

Humans, on the other hand, have the ability to call out for help when we are struggling.  And sometimes, we struggle.  The world can be a cruel place.  People don’t treat us in the ways we want them to.  Things don’t happen on our timeline.  Life feels difficult and we find ourselves scared and lonely and hurt.  When the tough times come, and they always will, we can ask for help.  Of course, there’s that tiny little problem we humans have with the whole asking others for help idea, and that is the fact that we HATE doing it.  Yet, the fact remains.  Sometimes . . . we need to be rescued.

Help can come in many forms.  Maybe a smile from a stranger would lift our spirit.  Perhaps a night out with our husband would calm our soul.  Maybe lunch with a friend who will share a cupcake (sans calorie counting) would bring us joy.  For me, all these things sustain me through the inevitable tough times, along with many others – long walks, good music, Bailey’s on the rocks after the kids have gone to bed on a Saturday night.:) 

Still, there is only one who can truly rescue me.  And all I have to do to find him, is look up.     

Psalm 34:17   The Lord hears his people when they call to him for help.  He rescues them from all their troubles.  

Our little Macie couldn’t ask for help when her liver was shutting down, but her eyes let me know she was in great need.  I pray I will be able to cry out for help when I am in such need - to my family, to my friends, to God.  And I pray I will be able to recognize when someone around me is crying out for help, whether they are using words or not.

It happens every time.  My heart sinks so low I’m instantly nauseous, and I feel tiny pinpricks behind each of my eyes, threatening me with heavy tears I can hardly contain.  It happens every single time I think about it, and I think about it most in August.  Not because it happened in August, but because that’s when school starts, and the scenario replays in my head as I prepare to send my children off to the place it’s most likely to happen again.

He was not yet three, and his baby sister, sleeping at home under grandma’s watchful eye, had only recently entered the scene.  It was a beautiful fall day – the kind where the sky is so clear and blue you don’t want to take your eyes off it, and the air is filled with the promise of crisp mornings, wool sweaters, and rapidly approaching holidays.  It was a perfect day for an outing. 

And so we went, my little boy and I, to enjoy some one-on-one time at the park down the street, the one where the train rushes by so close and so loud you have to cover your ears as it passes.  I can picture Charlie on that day.  I remember the navy shorts he was wearing, and the way his chubby legs barely peeked out from beneath them.  I can see the striped long-sleeve shirt he had on and the way his blond hair fell softly across his forehead.  I can feel his hand in mine, plump and warm, just before he let go and went running towards the swings, a joyous grin on his precious face. 

We were alone at the park for quite some time, content to revel in the sunshine as we tried out each piece of equipment.  Then, a little girl showed up with a woman I assume was her babysitter.  She was a bit older than my son, maybe a year or so, and equally as determined to make her mark on every area of fun the playground had to offer. 

Charlie observed the girl quietly for several minutes, as he often did when other children came around. Typically shy and calm, I expected my son would quickly return to his own activity, which at that moment, involved a shovel, a bucket, and a whole lot of sand.  Instead, Charlie did the unexpected, and my life was forever changed.

It plays out in slow motion in my mind – like a bad after school special from the 1980’s or something.  Ridiculous I know, but it’s as if the world goes silent while I watch the shovel and bucket drop from my son’s hands as he takes off running towards the little girl on the other side of the park.

“Friend!  Hey, friend!”

I am taken aback as the silence is broken by the sound of his voice, calling out in confidence, full of belief that he has recognized a peer . . . a playmate . . . a friend. 

“Hey, friend!  Let’s swing.  Hey, friend!  Come on.  Hey, friend!  Let’s play.”

So unlike my Charlie, and I am filled with pride as I wait for the little girl to respond, to join my son in games and fun on this perfect fall day.  

What happened next wasn’t unusual, but it is etched so deeply into my memory I will remember it until the day I die.  It wasn’t a tragedy.  I know that.  Still, it ignited a feeling so intense I can only describe it as one of the most monumental I’ve ever experienced. 

The little girl rejected my son.  She ignored him.  She walked away.  She didn’t even make eye contact with Charlie as he followed her around the park calling to her.

 “Hey, Friend!”

He was nothing if not persistent, and the tears spill over as I recall the hopeful expression on my son’s face as he attempted to reach out to another child, and failed, because the child simply did not care.

The scenario has probably occurred at least once more since that fall day, but I wasn’t there to witness it.  It will likely happen again in the years ahead, despite my prayers that it won’t.  Truthfully, who wants to raise a child who has never experienced the heartache of rejection?  We all need to know what it feels like to hurt, or else how will we know how to comfort others when they are hurting.  

Still, that day at the park was a revelation to me as the mother of a two year old.  Of course, I already knew I adored my son.  I knew I loved Charlie with all my heart and soul, and I had long before vowed to protect him at all costs.  But our experience that morning showed me the depth of desire I have for my son to be loved by others.  And it showed me just how tightly my happiness is wound in his.

He hopped out of the car this morning with a smile, headed to school for his first day of fourth grade.  He didn’t let me kiss his cheek, but he gave me a hug before we walked out the door, his head touching my shoulder now that he’s nearly ten years old.  And as he walked away from the car, his long legs dangling from his shorts as he rushed towards the front door, I prayed the same prayer I’ve prayed each and every day since that August morning at the park almost eight years ago.  I prayed that when my son calls out for a friend, he will always find one.     

Okay people, enough is enough.  We have to get in the game and make some serious moves.  The world has gone crazy and I HAVE A DAUGHTER FOR GOODNESS SAKE!!!

I know.  I should really stop reading books that keep me up at night thinking and wondering and worrying.  A couple nonfiction gems I’ve recently finished have me literally squirming with fear.  At two am this morning, I was wide awake considering how I can start a trend involving a tall tower in the middle of nowhere, a locked room to which only I have the key, and my daughter.  Think “Tangled,” but with a whole lot more genuine love from an honest to goodness birth mother.  There would be no magic.  My version of the locked room and the tall tower would simply involve the strong desire of a parent to protect her child from a culture that has lost its mind. 

Indulge me for a moment and allow me to share some of my newly acquired insight with you.

A recent study examined the diaries of young women from the late 1800’s.  Their main topic of reflection?  How to improve their character.  Sadly, that makes me laugh.  What do you think the young women of 2012 would claim they’d most like to improve?  I would imagine the list in their diaries would go something like this: hair, skin, body, bank account . . . not necessarily in that order. 

Why did such a drastic and disastrous change occur? How did a society that once valued virtue and modesty become a society that doesn’t feature anyone on the cover of a magazine without first, removing most of their clothing, and second, performing extensive “digital image manipulation,” or in everyday terms, photoshopping?  

The study claims one of the main reasons this change came about was because, at the end of the nineteenth century, mirrors became widely available to the general public.  Once women were able to see their reflections in a mirror on a regular basis, they began comparing their images to those of others. Hmm, sound familiar?  I can recall skimming through a fashion magazine last month and then looking in the mirror and thinking, gee, I have blond hair and two kids, maybe if I stop eating for the next, oh, five or six months, I could look a little more like Gwyneth Paltrow.  

Of course, shortly after mirrors became a household staple, home scales became available.  And the rest, as they say, is history. 

Mirrors and scales.  Are you groaning as loudly as I am?  Such simple developments yet, they made such a disturbing impact.  It’s maddening to think about, isn’t it?  Steam is literally coming out of my ears as I think of the time I’ve wasted fretting over what I could see in a mirror or on a scale.  It’s a good thing I’m in the kitchen right now and not the bathroom, because I’m so furious I want to take a sledge hammer to every mirror in my house.  (People with OCD issues don’t own scales, or else I’d destroy those too.) 

Statistics show that by the age of thirteen, 53% of American girls are unhappy with their bodies, and by age seventeen, 78% are dissatisfied.

A survey taken less than five years ago reported that 80% of ten-year-old girls have been on a diet.  That’s four out of five kids thinking about their weight instead of thinking about how to be a good friend or how to finish their homework on time or how many lightning bugs to catch after dinner.

Ten years ago, the average age for eating disorders was fifteen.  Today, children as young as five and six are being treated in centers all over the United States.  Five and six-year-olds with eating disorders.  Tears fill my eyes as comprehension takes over . . . that could be my child.

Up until the late 1800’s, clothing was often made at home to fit the exact dimensions of the people wearing it.  Now, we decide whether we’re a good person or not based on what size we have to take back to the dressing room in Nordstrom.

Just a few decades ago, most companies didn’t spend a penny to target eight to twelve year olds, and now, marketing for that age group is a fifty billion dollar a year business.  And I’m not referring to companies selling cereal and lollipops my friends.  I’m talking about companies who are trying to persuade my little girl she needs a bra that matches her underwear, and she should be wearing them both while applying make-up and straightening her hair.  I’m talking about companies who are attempting to sell my daughter a pair of pants with words on the backside, so the focus of anyone’s attention when they are behind her is on her bottom.  I’m talking about companies who want to convince my six-year-old to watch a television show that depicts her future role in society as that of a boy crazy teenager who cares more about date nights than studying.  (Just because it’s on the Disney channel doesn’t mean it’s for kids!).  I’m talking about companies who don’t care if a song that uses the “F” word half a dozen times plays immediately after a song by a tween that encourages little girls to love themselves for who they are. 

Research claims this insane advertising is all about creating brand and product loyalty – corporate giants are trying to grab the attention of potential consumers and keep it forever, and they will do whatever it takes to reach the youngest of audiences.  Of course, what that really means, is that it’s all about money.   Man, that greed thing comes back to bite us every time, doesn’t it?

Today, women in America spend over 7 billion dollars a year on cosmetics.  Many women are even taking more drastic measures to improve or maintain their looks.  (Can you say Botox?  I can, and I’ll probably say it again in a few months when it wears off).  In 2011, over ten billion dollars was spent on cosmetic surgery.   Hey, I’m not saying I haven’t considered it.  Have I ever mentioned that a size nearly A bra is too big for me?  Yes, you read that correctly.  Nearly A = too BIG, so clearly, I’ve thought about implants.  After I gave birth to my first child and my milk came in, I remember looking in the mirror and thinking, hallelujah, now that’s what a woman is supposed to look like!  I think my husband would probably support me if I decided to join the ranks of women who have forked over hard earned cash for the ability to shop at Victoria’s Secret, but what message would I be sending to my daughter if I tell her it’s what’s inside that counts, and then my outside suddenly transforms from a training bra to a 36C?  More importantly, what message am I sending to the world if I risk my life and future for a surgery that is not an absolute medical necessity?  Honestly, I guess I’d simply be responding to the messages I’ve received from American culture for a lifetime.  The ones that tell me I’m not pretty enough.  I’m not thin enough.  I’m not sexy enough.  I’m not ever going to be enough. 

What are we doing?  I realize we didn’t have much of a say as we were growing up.  We viewed, we heard, we witnessed, and, unfortunately, we conformed.  I don’t think our parents recognized what was happening.  Now, WE are the parents, and we know what is happening.  So why are we allowing our children to be brainwashed, as we were, by society . . . by a culture that values perfection over purity and honor and decency and integrity?  Why aren’t we standing up at local swim meets to tell the DJ it’s not okay to play a song about alcohol consumption when the only athletes on the starting blocks are under the age of twenty-one?  Why aren’t we pitching fits at the Barnes and Noble checkout line where magazines touting sex tips are placed at eye level for first graders?  Why aren’t we boycotting clothing stores that sell lingerie to teenagers?   Why aren’t we writing in to Christian radio stations that claim to be safe for the whole family, yet frequently air commercials about laser hair removal and weight loss methods?

We are allowing too many people to influence our children in ways that can negatively impact them forever.  People who don’t care about our children, people who see them only as potential dollar signs.  Our little girls are not objects, but they will certainly think of themselves as such if we continue to sit back and watch as they are bombarded with this message over and over and over again. 

We have to get in the game.  We have to make some moves.  The most important thing in the world is at stake and we are on the sidelines looking the wrong way.  It’s a daunting task.  My mind races every day as I consider how we can reverse the momentum, get on the scoreboard, and pull ahead?  Truthfully, I think if we really want to see change occur, we will have to do some uncomfortable, inconvenient things.  We will have to step on some toes, hurt some feelings, go out of our way.  We will have to turn down opportunities for fun and we might even lose a few friends along the way.  It will be a difficult and dirty job, but we are the only ones who can be advocates for our children – no one else is going to do it, and in the end, don’t you think it’s worth it?  Our children, our daughters, are worth every effort.

In all honesty, I think what overwhelms me most is the fact that I’m not sure I am up to the task.  Confrontation is not my thing.  I prefer avoidance.  I complained to my husband when the music at my daughter’s swim meet was inappropriate, but I didn’t ask anyone to turn it off.  I told the checkout lady at the bookstore they shouldn’t display magazines with the word “sex” on them right in front of my child’s face, but I didn’t approach the manager about it.  I was able to get the television channel changed from a soap opera to a sporting event when I took the kids to California Pizza Kitchen for lunch, but I was shaking when I did it, and if they had not honored my request, I probably would have eaten there anyway. 

I can refuse to shop in stores that market inappropriate clothing for children, but I don’t know if I can encourage other mothers to do it too.  I can prohibit my child from listening to inappropriate music, but I don’t know if I can take a stand when someone else allows it.  I will sign the petition, but I don’t know if I have the guts to create it.  I want to get in the game . . . I just don’t know if I can be the captain of the team.    

I guess, for now, I have to rely on my abilities to control what my daughter sees and hears in my home, and trust that I can overrule the harmful messages she receives every time she steps out the door.  And there is only one way I can do that – with truth.  

1 Samuel 16:7     But the Lord said to Samuel, “Do not look on his appearance or on the height of his stature, because I have rejected him.  For the Lord sees not as man sees: man looks on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.”

1 Corinthians 3:16     Do you not know that you are God’s temple and that God’s Spirit dwells in you?

Ecclesiastes 3:11     He has made everything beautiful in its time.

Psalm 139:14     I am fearfully and wonderfully made. 

Matthew 6:25     “Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, nor about your body, what you will put on.  Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing?”

1 Peter 3:3-4     Do not let your adorning be external – the braiding of hair and the putting on of gold jewelry, or the clothing you wear – but let your adorning be the hidden person of the heart with the imperishable beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which in God’s sight is very precious.

Song of Soloman 4:7     You are altogether beautiful, my love; there is no flaw in you.

Genesis 1:27     So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created him.

I need to memorize these verses.  I need to speak them frequently over the next fifteen years, until I’m blue in the face, until my daughter can finish each one in her head while she rolls her eyes behind my back because she’s heard them so much.  Hey, maybe as I share the truth with my children, it will even begin to sink in for me.  Maybe all those false messages that shaped me over the last thirty-seven years will begin to fade into the background.  Maybe the truth will finally penetrate my own soul and I will realize . . . I am enough. 

I might not be scoring the winning goal in this fight against the world.  For now, I will leave that to the people who thrive on confrontation instead of avoidance.  But I will make some moves.  I will pass the ball and play some defense and high-five every good shot.  I will stay on the team, and though I might not be the captain for all mothers out there, in my house, I will be the head coach (pun intendedJ).  I will work every day to fill my daughter’s mind with the truth.  There simply is no other option.  Unless . . . you have a tower in the middle of nowhere you haven’t told me about?  

Most of the above statistics were taken from two books I highly recommend, even if you don’t have daughters: 

Six Ways To Keep the “Little” In Your Girl by Dannah Gresh

Five Conversations You Must Have With Your Daughter by Vicki Courtney

Warning: These books will cause you to wake up at two in the morning with your heart in your throat and your hands shaking uncontrollably.

(All other statistics I made up.  Just kidding.  I Googled them, which might be just as bad.)