Christine Hassing

Photography by: Mr. Paul Scott http://iampaulscott.com/

For this week’s blog, I am privileged to share with you another sacred story of a military veteran journeying with PTSD who found hope in the form of fur.   It is my honor to introduce you to Kristopher and his service dog, Shera.    A story of mutual rescuing.   A story of strength and healing, bravely and openly shared for inspiration and for education.   Those who also journey with PTSD can be inspired.  Those who may not understand when they see a dog in a public setting can learn there is always more than we initially see.    A quote by John Lubbock states “what we see depends mainly on what we look for”.   I will ask you, what are you choosing to look for?    May what you choose be with eyes of compassion and a voice of reverent silence ready to listen as unconditionally as dear Shera.

And then my soul saw you and it kind of went “Oh there you are.  I’ve been looking for you” – Unknown

Nine hundred miles, give or take, separated her and I physically; yet, space could not keep us from our destiny.   She took her first breaths of life in Tennessee while I was feeling squeezed until I could scarcely breath in New York City.   She entered this life quickly learning she was not worthy while I, once worthwhile, was finding my sense of value fading.    Not yet knowing love, she began traveling Northeast to find belonging.   It is said opposites attract, though I think that it is more opposites find each other to form a whole.   Soon we would meet, knowing in that instant our souls had just found home.

Shera was five months old when my eyes met hers, and her eyes whispered I am meant for you, and you are meant for me.  She knew before I did what her role in my life was meant to be.   I saw her as companion while she saw her ability to service my journey with PTSD.   Two years after her adoption, we began our certified training.   The certified training the formality.  For Shera already knew how to listen to the rhythm of my heart when in irregular beat.  If I was anxious, Shera was my mellow presence and her body on which I could lean.   Her touch my reassurance that I was in safe keep.   Or, if night gripped too tight, Shera the warrior to chase away the horrific dreams.  Tap, tap, tap she would gently nudge until I would awake from those dark realities.   Her beating heart my comfort until I could bring my entire being back into the bedroom.  Until I could remove myself from the engraved and chiseled memories I knew.

I struggle to adequately describe the bond that Shera and I share – not because I am afraid or because I doubt that you will care.   I struggle two-fold, maybe three.  Let me do my best to explain though challenging for me.  One, when one spends years “just” living with night terrors, hypervigilance, and public anxiety, one starts to accept it is part of daily living.    One also learns that the public is uncomfortable hearing military stories that aren’t filled with highlights of our victories and our bravery.    If I share that I get afraid, I may not meet your images you desire to have and hold on to of the military.   And third, have you ever had something that your heart struggled to find the words for because it was a feeling in which no words could adequately convey?    Perhaps like hearing your unborn child’s heartbeat for the first time in which your breath was absolutely taken away.

I am blessed to be married to my best friend, and I love my step children as if they were of my blood since they were conceived.   Yes, now that but of what Shera has that my dear family is missing.    Though I know my family accepts me as I am, in all my anxious sensitivity, a part of me worries about what they think.   Through my ears I hear their judgments and through my eyes, I see their concern at what feelings are rising in me.  They might not be thinking anything negative at all, but in my mind that is what I perceive.   Shera’s unconditional love and her ears – and heart – hear my voice when I can’t find my own words to speak.   Shera is the safety net that helps me feel completely free to be…me.

I mentioned earlier that I “lived with” PTSD in that “it just is what it is” mode.  Prescription medications to sleep and to briefly enter crowded areas part of what would help me cope.   In 2015, a psychiatrist with the Veterans Administration gave me a prescription of a different kind.   Have you considered a service dog to accompany you by your side?    Shera was already filling that role – unofficially – at this time.   I didn’t need another service dog; I needed Shera to now earn her service stripes.  Shera and I filled that script through AKC Canine Good Citizen training.   With the passing of her Public Access Test, now Shera goes everywhere with me.  And, very infrequently now is prescription medication a necessity.

I should qualify “everywhere”, for there are certain situations in which Shera does not go.  It is a choice I make that she should stay home.   Just as Shera has my back and is ever vigilant at what is best for me, I, too, watch out to make Shera is not put into situations that aren’t for her well-being.   If a hike is the day’s plan, but the outside temperature is nearing triple digit degrees, Shera stays home so as not to be submerged in grueling heat.   Shera may monetarily begrudge not going, for she wants to make sure she is there if I become in need.   Yet, just as I know she is always keeping watch over me, Shera knows I have her back equally.

I know that Shera cannot fill the shoes of my comrades I had the honor of serving with for our country.   Those shoes can only be filled by the finest of men and women I have had the privilege of knowing.   Yet, when Shera lays down behind my back when I am in a grocery story line, I can feel myself protected by my battalion, all of them protecting me from all sides.   I like to think that Shera can hear their heartbeats from distant spaces, wherever those spaces may be.  Shera has a wisdom like that, a keen “knowing”.

It isn’t easy to be in silence without all the noises of a war zone ringing louder than one’s ears can absorb adequately.  And it isn’t easy to be in a crowd so very loud, wishing that silence would come quickly.  It is easy to be home because public places feel unsafe.  And it isn’t easy to be home because there is fear threat can’t be kept at bay.   It is easy to feel better staying up for two or three days straight so that there can be one solid night of sleep.  And it can be easy to long for staying asleep to avoid anxiety’s reality.   One can be on the front lines praying for the war to end so that you return safely home to family.  And once on this side of the front lines, no longer deployed, one prays for finding peace.   In this tug and pull, this stretch, this war that rages within that I don’t always have the training to know how to fight, Shera is the one who keeps me centered, moving forward, and upright.

Shera was our flower girl, best man, maid of honor, and I would argue the one to also give us away.  Walking down the aisle and then next to my wife and I Shera sat as we said I do on our wedding day.   Once again, as Shera stood beside me, I could feel myself surrounded by so many more I couldn’t see.  My battalion there in the shadows with raised hands in salute.  Kris, way to go man, this girl is most definitely the right one for you!

Shera is an extension of my right arm, her mission to serve my needs.  Her purpose is to support me as I journey with PTSD.   Yet, when Shera heard me vow to have and to hold, Shera made this vow her own.  If my wife is not feeling well, Shera is watchful of her as well as me.  Guardian of my wife, too, while keeping me her top priority.

Shera has a second purpose – actually, we both do as a team.   Our story is not just about hope, nor dignity.   We also feel our story matters for the education we can provide.   Dear public, please know, some wounds are invisible to the naked eye.   I may not be blind, nor deaf, nor missing of limb, but that does not mean I am not in need.   I will never wish the kind of anxiousness and terror I feel near you, yet sometimes I wish you could walk in the footsteps of my feet.  And please know, it is not you personally that near paralyzes me and threatens to take me to my knees fighting for breath or not to feel like I might explode.   I won’t have words that will make sense to you, but please know.   I don’t want to scare you when the walls feel like they are closing in around me.  I also recognize that perhaps for you dogs are scary.   Because I believe you know that the military place the highest value on one word – our honor- which means everything.  I promise you, I will never put you in harm’s way with Shera next to me.   Please give her a chance, please withhold your judging, feel free to ask questions for better understanding.   Just please don’t pet her without first talking with me.  I know there are some who abuse the service dog system, which is unfortunate, but I also kindly ask you not generalize.   For the sake of twenty-two brave and honorable veterans who are daily fighting for their lives.  A service dog could help a veteran live independently – and that is the key – living.

I have mentioned Shera’s wisdom, her keen intuitiveness that isn’t just to get my attention when she senses I need to remove myself from a large crowd before anxiety takes the lead.  There are moments like when we visited a Starbuck’s in New York City.  Dear Shera loves all ethnic backgrounds, not a discriminatory bone does she have.  That I can walk with her in my home city full of diversification I am glad.   Anyway, into a Starbucks we walk passing a gentleman who appeared down on his luck, and who Shera immediately did not like.   That Shera started to communicate in a low growl took me by surprise.   A few minutes later police arrived due to an incident that took place prior to us entering the door as customers that day.  Shera had known something wasn’t right immediately upon us entering that place.

If you see Shera jump up and put her paws on my chest, you might think she is not being a “good” dog because she is not staying down.   This is how Shera communicates that she can hear how my heart is starting to rapidly pound.   When anxiousness is starting to grip me, Shera lets me know it is time for us to find a quieter place, like going for a walk outside.  Her other tactic if we are sitting is to put her paw on my leg, look for her leash, and will me to look into her eyes.   Shera has a stubborn streak, too, if I am not paying attention as she speaks.   For fifty-pounds give or take, she is very strong when she sits refusing to move her feet.  I must say, I didn’t know it possible to find anyone outside my battalion who knew the shape of my back as if it were their own, ever vigilant in their watch of me   I feel blessed that I have found another soul who is as diligent in guarding for what I may not immediately see.

These moments of anxiety in which Shera wills me outside are not life and death emergencies.  Yet, in the depths of anxiety’s grip, these times can feel like I am being pulled from life towards an ending in which I may no longer be able to breathe.     I know sometimes Shera grows in her own anxiousness if she can’t be by my side, yet she bravely hides it ever my calmer dad, it’s all right.   A line had to be drawn in which she couldn’t be in pre-op as I prepared for minor surgery.   I can still see her excited greeting when I awoke in recovery.   I confess, I’m not sure who is happier when our eyes meet.   Shera might be more expressive outwardly of what my heart is inwardly communicating.   I have missed you girl, oh have I missed you so.   You are the biggest part of my heart, as I know you already know. 

Dad, I have missed you too, though I knew you were in safe keep.  Through rooms and through space, I listen for your heartbeat.  I would lay down my life for you, as I know you would lay down yours for me.    Did I ever tell you dad, that I could hear you from all the way in Tennessee?   Your voice was faint, but I could hear what your heart was trying to speak.  Humility and pride, not wanting to burden people with your pain.  Oh, how you were striving to be so brave.  I was too dad, trying to be courageous and have faith.  I knew I needed to get to you and that there would be a way.   Even when I felt I wasn’t wanted, I would be quiet and listen to what my own heart was beating in rhythm to.   It kept repeating: your souls will reunite soon; he is looking for you.  Dad, thank you for calling out to me loud enough for me to hear so that I would know North and East was the direction I needed to go.  When my eyes looked into yours, my heart beat excitedly…home.

Before you read Jacob and Tracer’s story below, let me set the stage for this blog and blogs going forward.

Do it now; sometimes later becomes never – Unknown.   A good quote, though I believe a friend’s social media post said it better when he shared a picture of a service dog lying near a casket.  No longer did this canine have someone to serve.  Reach out, ask, get involved, listen, my friend pleaded.

Another dear soul had found his pain mightier than his exhausted strength to live in the pain.   Suicide.  PTSD once again a thief of hope, and of life.  I was already aware that PTSD is a thief for twenty-two military veterans per day.   The more I watch and listen, I learn that twenty-two is an understated number.  And, this number does not consider men and woman in uniform such as law enforcement, paramedics, or fire fighters.

This has led me to my next steps with the book, Hope Has a Cold Nose.  At the right time, I know this book will happen; I will continue until it does!  Until then, I don’t want later to become never for someone who could benefit from the extraordinary stories I have had the honor of writing.  And the stories I intend to write.

I am grateful to Jacob and Tracer for many reasons.   Jacob gave me one of the most sacred gifts someone can give another – he trusted me with his story.   And because he did, I was led to a desire to utilize my listening and writing skills to help military veterans like Jacob achieve their next mission.

Jacob and others who have so graciously shared their stories with me have an inherent desire to continue to serve.   To lay down one’s life for others is a life-time oath.   Military veterans are no longer living out their vows deployed in a war zone; now they live this vow as civilians who do not want to see their armed forces brothers and sisters lose their lives now that they, too, are civilians.   An urgent call to duty is that twenty-two more brave men and women do not die today – and twenty-two do not die again tomorrow or the day after and the day after that – because they have reached the point where despair and hopeless win.

Jacob found hope in the form of a soul in a fur coat.  When Jacob, a veteran of the U.S. Navy who served in Afghanistan, met Tracer, the will to live became far greater than the certainty that death was the only option that would end suffering.    For both Jacob and for Tracer.  Tracer was rescued from a shelter, just as Jacob was rescued from his imprisoned pain.   For Jacob (and military veterans experiencing PTSD), hope had been slipping away through the regime of medications, out of reach in the nightmares and day terrors, and elusive from traditional forms of therapy.   As hope slipped away, so to was Jacob’s family and friends.  Until Tracer.   Jacob and Tracer, and other veterans who have shared their stories with me, discovered that life worth living again is not just an option.  It is a certainty.

My idea of Hope Has a Cold Nose began developing not for fame of the storytellers.   It began developing with the intent that the stories shared would reach those whose are struggling to find the strength to keep going.    And that it would reach readers who could increase their awareness and learn how they might be able to support those struggling with PTSD.    As I continue the focus on turning Hope Has a Cold Nose into a final manuscript, I hear Do it now; sometimes later becomes never and I see my friend’s FB post Reach out, ask, get involved, listen.  

As Maya Angelou writes When we cast our bread upon the waters, we can presume that someone downstream whose face we will never know will benefit from our action, as we who are downstream from another will profit from that grantor’s gift.   I cannot predict whose story of hope and dignity will inspire someone else, yet I do know that shared stories do.  And that I can get involved by reaching out, listening, writing, and sharing those stories.

I am passionate about the strength and beauty of the human spirit to find hope and purpose when deeply tested by painful and traumatic events.  I am also passionate about the holistic healing power of canines to help people on their journeys to reclaiming self-dignity and hope.   That being said, if someone has found hope again through equestrian therapy or fly-fishing or any holistic healing methodology, I welcome the opportunity to blog those stories as well.    If you know of someone who has found healing and hope on their walk with PTSD, please have them contact me through either of my web pages.

Tell the story of the mountain you climbed.  Your words could become a page in someone else’s survival guide.  – Morgan Harper Nichols. 

It is my honor to introduce you to:

JACOB and TRACER

“In racing, they say that your car goes where your eyes go. The driver who cannot tear his eyes away from the wall as he spins out of control will meet that wall; the driver who looks down the track as he feels his tires break free will regain control of his vehicle.”
― Garth Stein, The Art of Racing in the Rain

His war and my war different, yet both of us experienced the same.   Both of us have known loss and inescapable pain.    He may not have held a hand of a comrade taking his last breath.  Yet he knew the feeling of a shield starting to cover his heart when a cage his bed.   He may not have longed for silence when the spray of ammo was deafening.    He knew the pain of silence when his neighbors stopped their lonely howls for sleep.  We both knew the struggle to close our eyes for fear of memories; both of us with images that reinforced we weren’t “good for anything”.    On one level, I knew I was fulfilling my sacred oath to serve and protect; yet on another, I felt I was failing for each heart beat that would never resurrect.    On one level, his purpose to love unconditionally would not let him lose the faith; yet on another, not being wanted was eroding his spirit away.

Voices he couldn’t shake screamed “NO!”, “Bad!”, and ultimately “We surrender him to you; good ridden he is yours!”.   Voices I couldn’t shake yelled “Help me, please”, “Don’t let me die”, “Tell my family I bravely fought the war.”      His way of speaking is through his body in its wiggles and shakes; the more to be happy about, the more movement he makes.   As words sharper than a knife snapped his heart in two, his eyes grew dim and his body subdued.     I had once spoke a voice so charismatically; surrounded by family and friends once my top joy and priority.   As one life, then two, then…turn off, oh God, please, that off button let me find.  I, too, grew dim, so very dim inside.

Before our souls would find each other, before hope would nudge us both, I needed to partner with despair upon returning home.   What right did I have to be alive? or “in this chair, in this room, is the only safe place for me; these the type of messages in my mind’s relentless repeat.    The power of three G’s my armor laying across my chest – grief, guilt, and gutless trying to steal my breath.    Death had rubbed against me over and over – during deployment it just wouldn’t leave.  It had shown me it placed no value on good people – a dirty rotten thief!   I was no longer at war, but I was at war every day.   Emotions once buried threatening to no longer stay at bay.   Those hands I held or wished I could have had they still been attached now keep reaching out when I try to sleep.  Okay buddies, cheers to you, this fifth of Absolute is on the house courtesy of me.   Down the hatch, one, two, three.  Another bottle, another day, oh, sweet oblivion thanks you for your mercy.    And, yes Doc, I don’t mind if I do.  Pile on the prescriptions – twenty-five feels too few. 

Before we were meant to join as one, guardian angels were sent our way.   They were the orchestrators as our beacons of faith.  Mine was called Teresa and his was a right arm extension of an Earth angel whose calling was shelter dog rescuing.  Both were determined they would not give up on him nor me.    One step at a time, but steps forward none-the-less.  Step one for me, no more drink; Step one for him, another veteran and a planned meet and greet.  Step two for me an application acceptance to be partnered with a service dog.  Step two for him, a veteran cancellation with one phone call.    Step three for me, a six-month waiting period shortened to eight weeks.  Step three for him, a veteran named Jacob he was about to meet.

Hello Tracer, I am Jacob.  What do you say – shall we give this a try?  

Hello Jacob.   I am Tracer.  And just so you know – I will never leave your side.

I had already been blessed with two gifts to make my life complete.  My son Tommy and my daughter Ava, two additional angels inspiring me.    Now I have a third gift, a third child to make me whole.  Tracer and I inseparable for ninety-nine percent of where I go.     Tracer gave me my life back not just once, but twice.   Truth be told, he has probably given me many lives back each time he comforts me in the night.   He gave me a lifeline the day he and I became a cohesive team.  He also was the catalyst for paths intersecting.   A dog trainer kindly told me I had a wealth of knowledge that needed to be shared and not kept under lock and key; becoming a leader of a youth organization called the Sea Cadets would become my destiny.

Slowly, steadily, with the softest black fur held tightly in my grip or I held tightly in his; the prescriptions continue to decrease their grip.   With a wisdom and an encouragement that he speaks volumes through his eyes, I continue to step forward with my arms open to life.    Memories still knock in a menacing way and I’m certain they won’t disappear.   Actually, I hope they don’t fade completely for it is important my fellow comrades I keep near.    For each youth cadet I help, I am giving purpose to a fellow soldier whose time on Earth was through.  Goodness is payed forward in the community a cadet serves, and in the self-confidence, he builds too.  It is a slow healing process, and I know I can’t erase what deployment revealed about a dark side of life.   But with Tracer by my side, I can listen closely when I close my eyes.   I take a deep breath, and I hear my comrades say “thank you for making it matter in how you are fighting for me; because you bravely chose hope you are a beacon of light for others in need.  We know it is hard to keep going but you are doing exactly what we need you to do; the enemy doesn’t win because of the courage you choose”.

I am not a hero; medals go to Tracer, to my children, to my wife.  Medals go to men I proudly served with side by side.   Medals go to those who save lives like Tracer’s and who teach others like Tracer to save lives like mine.  Medals go to my friends who found it too hard when they came back to stay alive.   Medals go to the sea cadets who give me the honor to believe I am teaching them when, in reality, they are teaching me.  Medals go to my friends who also journey with PTSD.   Medals go to four-legged souls who also fight to survive, trust that the one they are meant to unconditionally love they will soon find.

I made many a wish upon a star the nights I was deployed.   Like Please, oh please stop the noise.   Our prayers get answered but not always in the way we are thinking when we reverently beg and plea.  A perfect example is the way that the gift of silence came to me.    Beside me speaking all the time, through a silent voice of the most incredible love is a four-legged soul in answer to my prayer sent to me from above.   I have known what it means to give your all to your team, to give your heart and your soul.    It is an entire new level of team with Tracer who makes me whole.

Well, Tracer, my boy, what do you say?  

I think you have done well diverting your eyes away? 

Diverting my eyes?   What do you mean?

You kept your eyes on the track and let your tires break free.   We are a pretty good team, aren’t we?  You and me.    Oh, and one more thing.   By your side, I will never leave.

In special thank you to Alana for the honor of writing her story for this week’s blog.

When I needed a hand, I found your paw – Unknown 

She has her own biography – two, actually.    One is about her mightier than a strike of lightening and volume two about her continued heroine capability.     Unfortunately, you won’t find mass publication of her stories if you were anxious to know the titles of each.  Libby Power I and Libby Power II are originals only.    The originals safely tucked in safe-keep.  The stories a sacred tribute to a sister in a fur coat.   A sister in familyhood, a sister of the soul.

Her formal name is Liberty, for her birthdate near the Fourth of July.   She was known as Libby all her life.    I knew my sister as another name, too.  Libby was also Life is Better Because (of) You.   People talk about the power of setting intentions to realize your dreams.   That if you put your focus on what you most desire, you bring your wishes into reality.    Perhaps not from birth, nor before I could walk with my own two feet.  But most certainly for most of my first eight years of life my desire was Libby.    Well, maybe not Libby specifically.   But a dog to grow up with my unending plea.

If during shopping my parents spoiled me with a toy, a stuffed dog was my choice.   My favorite movie was 101 Dalmatians – oh, the thought of having 101 dogs surrounding me!  When my Linus blanket (think Charlie Brown) was worn and needed re-backing, fabric with a dog pattern was the only option I could see.    The pictures I drew were of a dog named Sunshine.   Though Libby’s name different, she would bring immense warmth and brightness into my life.

One day when at the pool with my mother, a neighbor walked by, a most beautiful Golden Retriever walking along side.    Neither my mom nor I knew in that moment we were about to start on a life-changing journey.   I eagerly pointing out what breed of dog I wanted as my mom at long last said okay to a dog joining our family.  My dad my co-pilot in searching and in driving me.  Many a place we visited searching for my sister’s face.   And then, there was Libby, and only girl, boldly holding her own among her many brothers trying to pick on their little sister as the odd sibling.    Because I knew what it was to not fit in, I knew Libby was meant to be family.

It’s not that I was picked on by brothers – growing up with my brother meant getting older beside a best friend.   He loved Libby, too, my co-conspirator in dressing Libby up in pink and teaching her to balance an object on her head.  My dear Libby more poised than me in how she could walk gracefully.   No, my not fitting in was not from brothers like it was for my Libby.   It was being different than my friends in my ability to read.    During an age in life when wisdom has not yet knocked and confusion reigns, Libby was the unconditional love and joy starting and ending each of my days.

Her fur caught my tears of sadness, her wagging tail matched the times I was joyfully at play.   My confidante who did not judge as she listened to my heart.  And that we could understand each other without words was the best part.   There is a quote by John Lennon that reads life is what happens to us when we are busy making other plans.  My version of this is we share life with a best friend not realizing just how precious the friend is who is holding our hand.   Perhaps that is part of life’s flow that hindsight is the door opening that lets gratitude and wisdom walk in.   I guess Libby’s responsibility was to ensure I did not feel alone, and mine was to “just” be a kid.

On the day I received my driver’s license, Libby’s soul knew it was time for me to spread my wings.  She, always wise, knew me better than I knew me.    I had transitioned from childhood to teen-hood, now sixteen.   Libby was preparing for her own transitioning.     Her trouble walking became a diagnosis not of hip dysplasia but of that C word that grips one tight.   On the day I received my driver’s license, I also had to say goodbye.  Growing up from eight to sixteen, I had stumbled, tripped and fell many a time, figuratively.     Many a time Libby had been there as my backbone to help me back to my feet.  Now I was being asked to give back to her the same love.  I was needing to let her go to her responsibility as my guardian angel above.

The stuffed toy dogs that had been my companions before Libby came out of the closet that night.   Though they weren’t the warm fur of my soul-sister, they graciously caught my tears I cried.   It is said that a loved one will visit us in a dream to let us know they are okay.   I am so thankful each time Libby visits for us to talk, dress-up, and play.

My heart still feels the void of my fur sister not physically by my side.   I anticipate I will feel the absence the rest of my life.  During a most confusing time of my life, I had someone to help things make sense.  I had someone that taught me how to move through life with elegance.   Libby was truly the sunshine that entered my life as an eight-year old about to start walking some dark pathways.    Powerful Libby, such a powerful heroine in every way.

I, the author of Libby Power I and Libby Power II, sometimes day dreams about writing volume three.  Oh, what adventures I could create for both Libby and me!     I pause, thinking about some experiences I’ve had since it became time for Libby to leave.    Libby, though not directly, you’ve been a part of my journey.

Like living in the Caribbean and meeting the love of my life.  Libby, you always assured me that someday I would become a wife.   You would love Byron and think he was perfect for me.   You would be right – oh, Libby, I am so happy.   I’ve told Bryon so much about you, and I’ve told Coconut, too.  Coconut is our child in a fur-coat.   She is another very special soul.   Of course, you may already know that as you watch from where you reside.  Oh, and thank you Libby for any influence you had on Byron to bring Coconut into our lives. 

Coconut had a tough life before Byron and I brought her home.  Exactly the fears she faced we can’t begin to know.  Yet, Libby, because of all that you taught me, I loved her through her trembles and shakes.   I’ve held her close and assured her everything would be okay.  If you have had any influence over her, I thank you.   For she is a good catcher of tears, just as you knew how to do.   My tears not as frequent, and I think actually, Libby, I’ve caught more of Coconut’s than she has had to catch of mine.  Byron and I are focused on giving Coconut grand adventures in life.   Some moments she still gets afraid but her trust far greater than her scars of fear.  You know Libby, much like the guidance you gave me to grow in trust as we moved together through the years.   

You know Libby, the day we went to pick her up from her foster home, she had just escaped.  She was trying to run back to the streets she knew where she felt most safe.   I was walking in the direction towards her and she was quickly running towards me.  In that moment I knew Coconut was meant to be part of our family.   In that moment I was eight years old again, meeting you as you were reminding your brothers you were not wimpy.   I think that your strength is part of what spoke to me.  I didn’t begin to know then you would teach me how to be a beautiful blend of confidence and elegancy.   You were gentle yet strong, a quiet listener and a confident speaker through your heart – a heart more precious than the gold symbolically you.  You taught me integrate the same into my dance through life – my life made better dear Libby, because of you.