Oklahomans.

I love Oklahoma.

I've been to both coasts, New York City and San Diego, Texas, Kansas, and a few other states. Each one has their thing, their own special and unique appeal (except Arizona, Lord I can't stand Arizona, but that's another blog), but Oklahoma is Home.

I capitalized home because it's more than a place. It's like capitalizing Nature or Romance or all those other words that people in the 1800s capitalized because they embodied so much more than a lower case first letter could handle.

Oklahoma is my Home.

The people are genuinely friendly, albeit terrible drivers. We'll talk to you even if we don't know you. We mispronounce, misspell, and misuse words. We drop the letter "g" off any word that ends with it. We make do with what we have, talk about what we'd do with things we don't, and work hard to provide for what we need.

And, just like living in other states, living in Oklahoma comes with a risk, the largest being adverse weather. Those who live here can attest to the weather being sunny one moment, and causing you to search for shelter the next. I've worn shorts and a coat on the same day, and not on purpose.

On Monday we faced a tragedy. Although multiple tornadoes ripped through the state, one in particular stood out; the one that devastated Moore, killing numerous people, leveling an elementary school, and causing billions of dollars worth of damage to the city, and unspeakable damage to the lives of those affected.

I scrolled lazily through my Facebook news feed on Monday evening, seeing all the condolences, well-wishes, and prayers sent up for those involved. Then, somewhere in the midst of all the grief, little flashes of hope tore through.

A lady found her dog while being interviewed.

Someone organized a volunteer group to drive to Moore and help those in need.

Someone opened their apartment complex, and the University of Oklahoma opened their housing for displaced families.

Matt Kemp pledged to donate $1,000 for every home run he hits to relief efforts. Later on Tuesday, Kevin Durant of the Oklahoma City Thunder gave $1 million to the efforts.

As a matter of fact, just now, while typing this, I got a phone call from our local school in Fort Gibson saying the student council is accepting donations to donate to the Red Cross.

At every corner it seemed as though a new spot to donate popped up, clothes, food, money, anything people could give, and eventually emergency workers had to stop people from coming into Moore. The outpouring of love and kindness overwhelmed the need.

Let me be clear. What we faced was not equivalent to what happened in Boston. It was not the same as what happened to Sandy Hook Elementary, and it really wasn't on par with what happened in Joplin last year, because our weather forecasters did one heck of job warning us of what was coming.

But it was still tragic. People lost their lives, their family members, and their possessions. They sent their children to school that morning, only to have them never return. In the blink of an eye, everything and everyone they loved was taken from them.

So. Where was God?

Why didn't God stop this? He could have, right?

The answer is yes, yes He most certainly could have. I distinctly remember a time in the Bible where Jesus stepped up on a boat and spoke to a storm, calming it instantly. So where was he Monday afternoon?

The answer isn't an easy one to stomach, especially for those who don't believe in Him. He was there. He was there and He was in control the entire time, because not one thing happens on this big ball of mud and water without Him being aware and in control of it.

Listen. God allows bad things to happen. He allows tragedy. I don't claim to know why, and you won't ever catch me saying I do. However, I know one thing for sure. God is still in control, He loves me, He loves you, and He is the ultimate source of comfort in times such as these.

That said, my thoughts and prayers are with the families and the victims of this most recent tragedy. Lord knows I don't have much money, but I do have a little bit of free time, and in the coming weeks there is a good chance I'll try to head down that way and help them clean up. But in the meantime, y'all are in every prayer I say, and you've been in every prayer I've heard, including the circle our group of pick-up basketball players gathered into today before the game.

As for Oklahoma, well, we'll recover. Homes will be rebuilt, memories will be shared, and resolve layered with resiliency. Loved ones will be honored, and the shower of kindness and giving will continue. And next year, even moving forward into this year, we'll see the storm clouds roll in and we'll worry. We'll run for shelter and hope everything we love isn't taken from us. And if it is, we'll pick ourselves up, dust off what's left, and soldier on.

That's why Oklahoma is my Home.

That's why I love Oklahoma.

Carry on. 

On Releases, Passionate and Otherwise.

For those of you wondering, I have not died.

For those of you wondering if, I am not dead, I have continued my weight loss journey, the answer is yes.

I've lost 25 pounds or so over the last 4 months. It has not been easy, and I've stalled out around the 330 mark for right now, but a recent diet challenge presented by a friend will either push me past that or kill me slowly, either way.

In the course of my "trying to look less than that guy on the turtle" journey, I have spent a lot of time at the gym.

Go on. Stare. Get you an eyeful. There's plenty to go around, ladies. 

A lot of what I do at the gym now consists of me getting on an elliptical trainer and trying not to die for an hour. Since it is a big gym, some days people don't work out next to me, and some days people do.

I've found out that I much prefer it when people do, as it leads to finally getting me to post a blog again. 

About a week ago I was giving an elliptical the business, and had my fat head buried up in a Mark Twain novel while I was gettin' my sexy on. 

A woman then proceeded to jump onto the treadmill immediately to my right. She was a very attractive woman, clad in the traditional yoga pants and skin tight tank that you see so often these days...out in public. 

Can I just pause, just for a second, and let you ladies know that these yoga pants and leggings are NOT pants? In all seriousness, put on some pants. 

No, no. Shut up, and put on pants in public. I'm trying to raise a daughter modestly, and I can't have her thinking it's okay to show off her fanny in a pair of yoga pants or leggings. Guys, I know you're probably upset at me for this, but it changes when you have a daughter, trust me. 

Back to my workout. 

This woman gets on the treadmill and starts going at a pretty good clip. I'm reading, minding my own business, and all of the sudden I hear a noise. 

A SEX NOISE.

Y'all know the one. A soft little moan. Just a little "uhhhh." 

Being practically deaf, I decided I was hearing things, and went on to my reading. Then...

"Uhhhhhhhhh." 

The lady next to me is making the sweet, sweet jogging love to that treadmill. She had her headphones in, so I guess she could have been listening to some Al Green or some Barry White, but whatever it was, she was enjoying it. 

Thoroughly. 

I had my hands on the heart rate monitor at the time, and I'm pretty sure I broke it. 

My heart rate slightly increased. 

Now look. I understand we all make noises and funny faces when we work out, and some of them might even be our "O" faces. Heck, for example, I'll cite myself.

My "workout" face. Also probably my "O" face.  This is how I landed The Missus. 

My "unloading the dishwasher/pooping" face.

My "surfing the Internet and blogging/looks like I'm doing something terrible to Sub-Zero" face.

You see? I have my faces. I make my funny noises. But what I don't need is to be sexually frustrated while I'm trying to exercise, you know? We need to tone it down with the passionate jogging and maybe sit the next couple of plays out. 

I sent The Missus a text about it and got the following: 

"Ha, well they did just release 50 Shades of Grey on audiobook." 

Isn't she helpful? 

And I thought this post would end right here, but since it's me, of course it didn't. 

About two days ago I was hitting the weights pretty hard, and I put a lot of strain into a particular set on the bench press. Then it happened. 

I farted. Not just a little squeak either, I'm talking people looked at me like they thought I'd ripped the vinyl smooth off the bench. I didn't have the chance to hear it because I had my headphones on, but I sure as sugar got to smell it, and I got to watch everyone in the gym look at me awkwardly for the rest of the day. 

Just desserts? 

I'll never know, but I know I dang sure wouldn't break gym equipment if I heard the chick next to me fart instead of daydream about a BDSM relationship with a fictional character. 

And at least my Facebook friends were supportive. 

Life changes people. Life changes. 

Family Day.

"Then the drill instructor said 'Be the one. Be the one that looks over to find your family.' I tried to keep my eyes straight, but I had to see if y'all were there. I looked over and found you, then I was able to focus on the run. Some guys had parents that showed up late, after Family Day was over." 

***

I was nervous. I won't pretend I wasn't. 

I know I said in the last blog that I wasn't worried they would take his smile and his laugh, but I was. Deep down, I wondered what had happened, and if they had managed to suffocate my brother and replace him with a finely tuned Marine. 

We drove on to the base Thursday morning, were searched, then allowed through to the proceedings. We parked and walked to a clearing where we were instructed on the rules for the day. It was a drill instructor who I guess had the most public speaking experience, and who instructed us not to "walk on his grass or his parade deck." 

I won't bore you with the minutiae the day consisted of. I'll skip straight into the good stuff. 

"There's a Starbucks somewhere on this base. I gotta have some Starbucks. Let's just walk around until we find it." 

***

The drill instructor yelled his last words to a crowd of surging family members kept at bay by a few stern looking young men in crisply starched uniforms, green belts, and hats like I see on the highway patrol here in Oklahoma. 

"Ladies and gentlemen, I give you...YOUR MARINE!" 

The crowd broke, and in that moment, I saw what pure, distilled happiness looks like. Moms rushing to hug their sons, fathers holding back tears and waiting to shake the hands of the boys they used to make sit up straight. 

It was awe-inspiring. In fact, I held back for a moment, just a moment, to both fully appreciate it and to try and sneak a picture of Josh hugging mom. I felt a bump, and then...

"Will you MOVE. Jesus!" 

Cue the record scratching, jaw dropping, and angry stare from me. Some lady had just ruined my moment. And she called me Jesus, and I was clearly not wearing a robe. I guess she could have been uttering a prayer to the Spirit, asking Him to move among those in the crowd, but the look she was giving me makes me think she was the furthest from the Spirit she'd ever get. 

"I'm just looking around to see if everyone is taking their hats off to eat. I don't want to be the only one who does. Travis, do you see anyone? Are their hats off? I wanna eat this burger." 

***

Finally I broke through the crowd, fighting back tears, watching my mom brush them out of her eyes, and watching Josh hug and kiss his girlfriend. The drill instructor made it very clear that moms were to get their hugs first. 

He looked skinny. My brother, never one to be extremely thin, lost a great deal of weight at boot camp. He said it's only thirteen pounds, but I think it's more. He looked different. I went to him, unsure of a handshake or a hug. 

The he smiled, hugged me, and said, "How you doin' bro?" 

And just like that, I knew my brother was standing there. 

We walked all through the base that afternoon. We laughed, we talked, he told us horrifying stories about yellow hand prints on the wall and something called a "peanut butter shot." 

It's not what you think it is. At all. 

I don't want to go into detail too much because I honestly don't know if I'll get him in trouble for disclosing any of his stories. 

I must say, I held it together remarkably well. It took about ten minutes, and the whole family was joking with him like usual, not being serious about anything, teasing him about looking over his shoulder every time he thought he saw a drill instructor. 

I had two little slip ups. The first was when the drill instructor asked for all the moms to cheer for their sons. Then he said, "Where are all my dads at?" 

The second time was in a store on base, and they had some t-shirts hanging up. Every kind of Marine slogan you've ever heard. Then one caught my eye. 

"Marine Dad. He called me 'sir' first." 

I excused myself and walked outside for a bit. 

"I better run back in there early. The drill instructor said 'Be the one. Be the one who is late today.' They still have me for one more night. I'll see you guys tomorrow. Be ready to drive. I'm ready to get home." 

***

Five hours passed in the blink of an eye. I watched Josh eat a burger, drink a coffee, turn down numerous attempts to buy him other foods, and hold hands with his girlfriend while talking to other recruits, all nervously looking around and laughing. 

My mom made one of the drill instructors stop and take a picture with Josh, which I laughed about for an hour, and I would absolutely post the picture on here if I didn't think it would get him drawn and quartered when he went back. 

I tried to feed a seagull in the parking lot and he stopped me, grabbing the crackers out of my hand and telling me how he would be the one to get in trouble if anyone saw me doing that. 

I watched my brother walk away quickly across the parking lot, pants and shirt still as crisply ironed as they were when I first hugged him. He looked like a man on a mission, but he looked familiar. He looked like my brother. 

I hollered out to him one last time. 

"I thought you said you were going to run, Marine!" 

He turned and laughed, turned back around, and for a brief second I thought he would break into a jog. But he didn't. He kept walking. He kept being my brother. 

He's Your Marine. He's My Brother.

I've been in California now for a full 24 hours. 

I can sum it up entirely with just one picture. 

Seriously. Everyone. 

Today is the day.

I'm sitting here watching The Missus—who took the easy way out and flew in last night—get ready, and all I can think about is today. 

The day I get to see Josh for the first time in three months. 

The day when I see him in his boot camp outfit, or whatever it is. 

The day I see him march. Yell "Yes sir!" at the top of his lungs. Stand at attention, parade rest, all that stuff. Hug mom. I get to see how much weight he's lost, how short his hair is, and how he stands taller and with more pride. 

The day I see him grown up. 

I'm not afraid I won't recognize him. I'm not afraid he won't smile and laugh when he sees us, and I know for a fact he won't cry when he hugs mom or his girlfriend. That'll be my job, just like now. 

I wish to hell my dad could be here to see this. 

I'm going to do my best to hold it together and get some pictures of him doing his Marine thing. Then they give us something called "Family Day." 

I am petrified of accidentally walking on the parade deck. 

One thing keeps running through my mind after reading that.

"Your Marine." 

My Marine. 

Bullcrap. 

It's My Brother. They will never take that title from him. 

To Josh.

"Mom, when is dad coming home?" 

Those are the first words I remember coming out of my baby brother's mouth. I'm sure if I took a minute and really focused, I could come up with something else, but that's what I remember. 

Our dad had been dead only a few hours when he asked that question. 

***

Four of a kind: Sloats. 

I'll never forget letting him drive my car for the first time. I've blogged about it before, but I can condense it here for those who haven't heard the story.

Josh could not have been more than 10 years old. I needed to move my car a few feet from the driveway to the patio to do something stupid to it, like add subwoofers or crappy undercarriage lights. 

Josh wanted to drive. I thought, "eh, what's the worst that could happen?" and I let him hop behind the wheel, scoot the seat up, and give it a go. The car rolled a few inches then caught the lip of the patio and wouldn't move. 

"Alright, Josh. I want you to reach down and just tap, just TAP the gas. You understand?" 

"Yeah!" 

He floored it. 

The car jumped over the lip, hit a picnic table we had on the patio, shoved it off and directly to our pool, which it would have destroyed had I not jumped into the car and mashed the brakes with my hand. 

Josh looked at me, eyes wide, breathing hard, not scared at all. 

"THAT. WAS. AWESOME!" 

***

He called me one night about six months ago. 

"Travis, I'm going to join the Marines." 

I laughed at him. 

"No you're not, it's not that bad at home." 

To tell the truth, I was kind of upset with him. For those of you who aren't intimately connected with my family history, my dad had three brothers, just like me. Out of those four boys, one died at the age of 9, the other at the age of 20, and my dad at the age of 40. 

Four brothers. Now one. The oldest is still alive. I am also the oldest. 

I am absolutely petrified of losing one of my brothers. One of my biggest requests to the Lord is that He'd take me home first, to spare me the pain of losing any more of my family. I am scared to death at the thought of one of them dying before me. 

As for military service, I've always supported it, but never really seriously considered any one of my brothers joining. Brad talked about it some, but never did. Jordan and I never really even considered it. It's one of those things where you think "Oh, that's fine for other people, but not for us." 

Well, it turns out Josh was serious. All three of us tried to talk him out of it. We insulted him, laughed at him, and told him how the Marines would eat his lunch. He's a small town kid from Okay, Oklahoma. He wouldn't know anyone. He has authority issues. People would stick bars of soap in pillow cases and make him their girlfriend. 

We probably overdid it. 

But he joined up. Then he left us for three months so he could go to boot camp. 

He wrote the family a letter the other day, his last one before graduation from boot camp in San Diego. 

Jordan tried to read it. 

It took Brad, faithful, strong, dependent Brad to read it. 

"I got my Sloat name bar the other day. I think dad would be proud of me." 

I can't even fully comprehend how proud our dad would be of you, Josh. I'm proud of you. Mom is proud of you. Aven and Akeeli are proud of. EVERYONE here is proud of you. 

Tomorrow I'm going to wake up and head to my mom's house, where I'll meet Jordan, my mom, and Josh's girlfriend Miesha. We are going to get in a van and drive 24 hours to San Diego. The Missus will fly out on Wednesday evening, and we'll all be watching Josh walk across the stage and become a Marine. 

I'll cry. It's what I do. 

I'm going to post a few more things about Josh this week. Give him a blog dedication of sorts. I think he deserves it. Truthfully, all of my brothers deserve it. We are Sloats. 

Sloats rule. 

The night before he left. I'm praying they didn't take his sense of humor. 

I Missed It.

It started the same way at both of the houses I lived in growing up. My father paid a ridiculous amount of money, which I'm sure we didn't have, to have a cement truck come out and pour the concrete slab. Then he would set to work smoothing the concrete, working it until it was just right, keeping us kids away from it, telling us just to wait, wait, it would be ready in a few days. Then he would set up the goal, and he would always make sure the rim, at it's tallest adjustable height, was exactly ten feet from the slab...

Saturday was a busy day. I woke up sick, my sinus cavities clogged with anger at the fickle Oklahoma weather we've been having.

I had a trainer session at 8 a.m. Bright and early. I blew my nose, I drank my disgusting pre-workout shake, and I headed out.

My schedule for the day included the workout, then driving home to shower and change, then head out the door for a writing assignment that was an hour's drive away from my house, and that started at 11 a.m.

The one thing I simply did not have time for was my son's basketball game at 9 a.m. It just wasn't possible. Even without the workout, it still wouldn't have been possible.

If the weather was nice, I'd usually be outside on that slab, throwing up shot after shot. It was the place I hit my own personal "The Shot," and I loved being out there. Every once in a while after dinner, my dad would walk outside to the slab, look at me, and ask, "What's it going to be tonight?" I'd usually pick a game called "Around the World," where each person shot from nine different places around the "court." Every single time, I would think to myself "This is it. This is the night I beat him." My dad would flip me the ball and say, "You go first..." 

The Missus sent me a text Saturday morning. "Are you going to Aven's game?"

"I really don't have time." 

She didn't make me feel guilty, she understood.

And really, if the truth be known, I didn't feel guilty about it. I was too busy. There was too much going on. Plus, I've been to every single other game he has had this year, and let's keep it perfectly real, Aven is terrible at basketball.

Don't get me wrong, he can shoot, barely, when he's practicing. He's working very hard on his dribbling and he's coming along nicely there...in practice. Yes, he's five. Yes, he is appropriately horrible at the game for his age and experience level.

But at the same time, I knew I wasn't going to miss anything big.

I'd miss the first shot. I'd always miss the first shot. You had to stand under the goal and one arm it up and in, and I did not have the coordination for it yet. Since you got a "chance" shot every time, you could always take two shots on the first and not have to worry about starting over. So I'd try again. I'd usually miss. I'd groan, knowing what was about to happen. My dad would get the ball, and the beating would commence...

I was driving home from the workout, and I was feeling pretty proud of myself for going in even though I was clearly on my deathbed. I was thinking about things the day held, and how I was going to divide my split shift for the day into workable segments.

Not a thought in my mind was occupied with Aven's game.

Then the text came in.

"Aven just made his first basket in a game!"

I missed it.

I f*$&#*@g missed it.

He didn't miss. He never missed. He would go the entire way around the "world" and not miss once. Every. Single. Time. I don't know how my dad shot so well. I don't know if he played in school, I don't think he did. I've never heard of him being a hoops legend on the street courts of Coweta, Oklahoma, in his heyday. In fact, I don't even really know why he liked basketball to begin with, but I know he did. After his first circuit, he'd look at me and say, "Alright, now I have to go back around." And somewhere in that trip, he'd miss. 18 years later, I've finally figured out he probably did it on purpose...

I've felt pretty bad about things in my life. There are times I've had where I realize how wrong I was, or how stupid I was, and then I usually have the obligatory pity party, where I steep in self-loathing almost as completely narcissistic as the original act I'm "punishing" myself for.

But Saturday, it was different.

I missed it.

Yeah, Aven will have other "firsts." He'll have his first game where they actually keep score, his first assist, his first high school game, his first start, and maybe more. There will be a lot more firsts.

But this one was more important to me than anything else.

And I missed it. Why?

"I really don't have time." 

I'd get my second chance, and I'd get going. After the first shot, the next two were easy. Then the corner shot loomed. This was the shot that would make or break me. I just had to complete one circuit, and this was the keystone on which success or failure was built. Most of the time, I'd miss. Then I'd usually take my chance, and I'd usually miss again. My dad would laugh and say something like, "You won't beat your old man today, son." Then he'd rip off five or six straight shots to win the game. After, he'd flip the ball back to me. "Let's go again." He gave me another chance... 

Aven walked in the door right as I was about to walk out of it for my assignment. To tell you the truth, I had been praying I wouldn't see him before I left. But he walked in. He looked at me, all ready to go, and all thoughts about his shot left his mind.

"Dad are you leaving already? I never get to see you!"

I turned around, bit my lip, and forced myself to smile. I turned around, and The Missus, thinking quickly, said, "Don't you have something to tell him?"

"DAD I MADE MY FIRST BASKET!"

I hugged him, fast, before he could see the tears. I said, "I know son, and I'm so proud of you." I turned, walked out the door, into my busy life.

Yesterday at church, Aven met his assistant coach on the walk to door. The coach walked up to him, high-fived him, and said, "Aven! The scoring machine!" He and Aven laughed, and the coach said, "And you had everybo...your mom and your sister there to see it!"

I have no doubt his intentions were pure and it was a simple slip of the tongue. No doubt whatsoever.

But I wanted to tear him apart.

Then, that afternoon, my family gathered at my mom's house for dinner and the reading of my youngest brother's letter, which will be another blog this week. As we walked in the door, the talk of the room was Aven's first basket. Everyone congratulated him, high-fived him, and my brothers were joking with him and in general just making me feel a little more sorry for myself.

I missed it.

I missed it. I always missed the first shot. Then history would repeat itself, and we'd walk to the house, me as the loser, him as the winner, the universe in perfect harmony. He'd always slap me on the back and tell me to keep working. "One day you'll beat me." Oh that the "one day" would come! Even though now I would trade a lifetime of losing to my dad to get him back, then all I wanted to do was win. All I wanted was to be a good...

Dad. That's all I want to be. A good dad. Not great, not spectacular, not anything special. Just good. I want Aven and Akeeli and any other children that might come along to say, "My dad was a good father, and a good man."

So I kept working. I don't remember the day I beat him, but I know I did. I'll never know if he let it happen or not, but I don't think my dad was that kind of person. My hard work paid off. I kept trying, and I made mistakes, and I kept getting chances, and that's exactly how real life works too. I'll keep getting chances at this "dad" thing. I'm sure this won't be my last big screw up, because it's certainly not my first. This one just hurt more.

Time.

Whenever I think of the word, my mind flashes back to the movie Man on Fire with Denzel Washington.

"I wish. You had. More time."

After a discussion in my Sunday School class yesterday, I've discovered I'm not the only person who struggles with managing their time. We're all busy with work, school, church, family, friends, hobbies, and a billion other things that cause us to lose focus and never complete any one thing with care.

I'll learn. I'll figure it out.

My job at the moment is not something which cannot be manipulated. If I have an assignment, I have to take it, because it's work, and I have to contribute to this family somehow. Could I have chanced being a little late and maybe caught Aven's first basket? I don't think I could have. Does that change the way I feel about missing it? No it doesn't. Not one bit. I feel terrible.

But I get to keep working with at the game. I get to teach him little things I know, and encourage him to try harder.

Aven doesn't watch the ball when he plays. He watches us. He's always looking at the sideline, disregarding all the basic principles of the game, eschewing them for us. For our approval.

And my life's goal is to always be there, looking back at him, waving my hands like crazy, telling him for the love of God just get back on defense, stop looking at us, pay attention to your coach, GO!

As much as I hate time, it provides us with the one thing we all so desperately need.

Second chances.

The Blanket.

The blanket was pink and purple, and looked like it might feature the face of a Disney character. It was impossible to tell, however, because it was wadded up and stuffed in the bottom of an animal carrier. Sitting atop the blanket was a very nervous cat, hunched against the back wall, completely silent, the smells of the office too unfamiliar and intimidating.

To the man observing, it looked like a blanket his seven year old daughter might have stored somewhere, the kind that are a dime a dozen during the holiday season or at a specialty store. It was a bit dirty, but it seemed well-intentioned and well-used.

The man slowly lifted his eyes to the individual carrying the crate. She had arrived in a cab, which was still a little rare in this city. She was around thirty years old, plainly dressed, and appeared to be every bit as nervous as the cat huddling on the blanket.

Our observationist was just there to pick up his dog, who had been the recipient of a very humiliating surgery the day before. The reader is surely familiar with this surgery, and will pity the dog accordingly. The man was waiting patiently to be helped, and was next in line when the young woman with the blanket walked in the door.

She didn't express any regard for the rules of society when she walked around the man and struck up a conversation with the still busy assistant, but after hearing her speak it was plain to see why. Her voice carried an indicator of a mental handicap of some sorts, unknown to the author, but placing the taxi and her assumed rudeness into immediate context. Forgiveness, tinged with a pity he struggled to tamp down, rose in his heart.

The assistant asked her if she'd fed the cat in the last twelve hours, and the young woman responded with a firm no. Then, a moment after, she leaned forward and confidentially informed the lady trying to take the crate that the cat had a "few pieces" of food that morning.

She was reluctant to let go of the crate. But as she let her hand fall away, she looked at the assistant and said, "Will you please put his blanket with him after he's done to make him feel better?"

The man—who is notorious for having a tender heart, especially in the vet's office—steeled himself, for he felt the tears coming. Hot pin pricks of empathy stung the corners of his eyes, and he knew he couldn't break down. Not here again. Not now.

He knew then the blanket had to be special. He realized how important the blanket must have been to her, if it was so important to the cat.

And then a memory was triggered.

He'd had a recent experience with blankets. A terrible experience. He had hated a pair of blankets not long ago, and the memory of them was chiseled into his mind, bored into his subconscious, and caused him to obsess over the objects of security (and terrible things) for an unhealthy amount of time. He had repeatedly wanted to burn that pair of blankets, and burn the things they represented out of the lives of the people he loved the most.

Of course it was never really about the blankets, was it?

Then the young woman asked another question.

"How much will it cost?"

The assistant told her, and then told her it would cost extra if she left him there additional nights to heal. The young lady frowned, agreed, and headed out to the taxi, still waiting in the parking lot.

***

There are times in our lives where the basic good will scream at us to do something. If one is not careful, they can over sensationalize it, call it the hand of God or whatever other religious sense they choose. They can say they heard a voice, a prompt, a calling...whatever suits their affiliation. And I would not argue long with those people, because I know God sometimes uses a person, disregarding their spiritual insignificance, to minister to those in need. 

But sometimes it has to be humanity. Not pity, not false philanthropy, and not an overblown ego. 

Just humanity. Wanting to be good to someone else. 

***

God/humanity/the basic good called to the man. Still fighting back tears, he walked out to his car. He retrieved his wallet and brought it back inside. The assistant brought his dog around, who was happy to see the man, but a restrained sort of happy, and understandably so.

"Sir, you've already paid. You don't owe anything else. Just keep him still for a few days."

"Ma'am, if you knew this dog, you'd know that's going to be almost impossible..."

Then his voice cracked and betrayed him.

"...and it's nothing of mine I want to pay for."