My prayers are "back'ards," always being filled with praise and thanksgiving for what He has done, is doing, and will do in my life and in the lives of others. 

 

Believe it or not, when a traffic light I am approaching changes color, I say, right out loud, "Thank you, Lord!" Why? Because, if it turns green, I know the way ahead is safe. If it turns red, God is holding me back for a few moments so the way can be cleared! Many times over the years I've seen this proven, as I wait for a light (or wait in traffic), only to discover that there's been a bad accident or some other thing that would have harmed me. Does it mean that every light change or delay is a message or act of God? Yes, I believe it to be so, even though it may not always be apparent at the time.

 

This is utter faith. It is childlike and it is total.

 

The death of a beloved dog in July 1998 was rough. Too had shown up at the farm in February 1994 where I kept my horses. He looked almost like a carbon copy of ten-year-old Beau, a black and white Siberian Husky with ice-blue eyes, thus the "he looks like Beau, too" naming. The differences were immediately clear that physical appearance was not proof of duplication: Too had been long on the run. He weighed half of what he should, his toenails and pads were worn smooth and were almost hot to the touch. His lower front teeth were worn almost to the gum, and he had a mark on his neck where a thick collar had been. The story before his arrival was unknown, but there were those visible hints. His previous owner was never located, so he stayed with Beau and I for almost four and a half years. The major differences were that Beau was a puppy mill dog and was Very food aggressive. No matter that he was never teased about food and never hungry; he was always ready, willing and able to bite the hand that fed him. It was sad, but all efforts to change him failed. Too, on the other hand, was ever grateful for his new home and never let me forget it. His eyes and happy "smile" told me so, and he often laid as close as possible to me, sometimes almost choking me with his head or a front paw draped 'crost my neck! He was everything that Beau was not, though they were both beautiful dogs.

 

That July morning, I just returned from a truck trip to Chicago. It was eight-thirty and "going to be a hot one," steam already rising from the fields in typical Ohio summer fashion. The barn area, where Beau and Too lived when I was out of town three days a week, was cool and clean, bedded with straw and cedar shavings, with buckets of fresh water and free choice food. Their dog houses were "DogLoos," and they each had half the floor plan, giving them full sight of the horses and a 15 x 20-foot area to enjoy. Upon my return, each would "roo" at me, that sound that is not quite a howl, but certainly not a bark. That morning, only Beau rooed. Too was still asleep! I could see him, stretched out peacefully on his side, looking like he could scarcely have been more relaxed. He was still warm, but his angelic spirit had gone Home. I gathered his almost hundred-pound body in my arms and staggered up the hill toward the gate. The farmer that owned the farm saw me when I neared the gate and offered to bury Too for me. It was the only time he saw me weep.

 

Nine weeks and three days later, the Farm Science Review began here in Ohio, just four miles from home. I had two free admission tickets, and gave one to the farm owner. We arrived at eight am sharp and joined thousands of other Review goers to walk the four and a half miles of the Review grounds, where everything farm and rural related may be found -- even cattle dogs from Amish country.

 

There they were, in a round pen: thirteen or fourteen Australian Blue Heeler puppies, two litters, all looking healthy and happy, other than being not nearly the show stoppers that Siberian Husky pups are. After all, these little guys looked more like lambs than dogs, their silvery-white coats just beginning to show their future markings. One pup stood out immediately, to me. He was lying in the shade, watching two others tussle for a piece of rope. He patiently waited until they tired and abandoned the rope, then walked over and got it. Then he saw me watching him, and the rest is history. That familiar feeling in the pit of one's stomach when you find "the horse" or "the dog," happened to me. I reached in and scooped him from the sea of squirming puppies, and the farmer wryly commented, "It looks like you've got a new dog." I cringed, thinking that Beau would probably have this pup for supper, as food aggressive as he was. I put the pup back and we spent the next eight hours walking the Review grounds and seeing all that was new (and tasty -- the Review has a great Food Row, with Angus burgers and Bob Evans sausage, plus anything else to please the rural palate). At four o'clock, we walked back down the row where we'd started the day. I found myself hoping against hope that the pup might still be there. It was obvious, even from a distance, that there were far fewer pups than there'd been that morning. More than half were gone. But ... one pup, reared up on its hind legs and looking in our direction -- could it be? It was! He'd been awaiting our return all day! I took him home on condition that my husky would accept him. Although Beau was testy, he grudgingly accepted the pup, and for another three years they lived with me. Beau was almost fifteen when he died in his sleep.

 

The pup's name is Wiggles. He will soon to be eight and he's "the dog of a lifetime." He's utterly loyal and filled with love. He loves me, but he also wiggles that stumpy tail for the rural mail carrier, my parents, friends, sisters, and all those he comes across in life. His eyesight has gradually left over the last three years (both his parents were carriers of PRA -- progressive retinal atrophy), so God has blessed me to be his seeing eye person. We're both fine with that and have adjusted and are happy in our lives. I don't rail at God for Wiggles' blindness. I thank Him for the gift of this dog, so filled with love and trust, and for the blessing of being the person given the privilege of caring for him through his life.

 

This is utter faith. It is childlike and it is total.

 

The miracles that made me able to be home with Wiggles and be his friend, began when his eyesight was fine, long before we knew about the PRA. In January 1999, U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service held a meeting in the local Mennonite Bible college at Rosedale, in the sanctuary, to tell my Amish and Mennonite neighbors and I that it wanted to install a federal wildlife refuge right where we lived, ostensibly because it had discovered that we had "possible habitat" for the "endangered Indiana bat." That day we were handed relocation brochures. In the three and a half years that followed, the guidance from God to be a fighter for my home, way of life, and those of my pacifist neighbors, brought many changes. In order to fight the good fight and fight it well, my job was resigned, the horses and all that pertained to them, sold.

 

Although USFWS officially withdrew its "proposal" in June 2002, by that time I'd learned of other property rights issues nationwide and was on the way to becoming a voice to help others learn to help themselves. http://www.PropertyRightsResearch.org was born on January 4, 2002, when the sixth-generation farm owner in my neighborhood, who had started and run a website to help get the word out about us and our plight and fight, http://www.nodarbyrefuge.org, emailed to tell me that he had terminal liver cancer. He said he was shutting the site down if I didn't want it. He asked if I wanted the website. I prayed for guidance, thanking God for wherever this path led, though I had no idea of how to run a website. A friend in New Mexico emailed an answer to my query for a webmaster and her webmaster took on this new task. Four and a half years and well over four million first-time visitors later, the original website (which focused on this Darby part of Ohio and numbered 116 pages) has become a national, and international, website to help folks learn about property rights and resource providers, and it numbers over twenty thousand pages. More than a billion return visitors is clear evidence that the website is needed and useful. The former wages I made each year, have taken six years to make what used to be earned in one year, but we are making it. We have food on the table and many, many blessings to count!

 

This is utter faith. It is childlike and it is total.

 

How it is achieved is not something easily explained, other than that it has been a part of my life since September 1977, when God's direct intervention saved my life from being maliciously destroyed by another person. Earlier that afternoon, when I was so miserable in a marriage that had been unbelievably violent since Day One, which was May 5, 1973, I was sitting on the steps of our apartment, curled in the fetal position, quietly asking God to just let me stop breathing, because nothing I said or did stopped the beatings, and I could never raise my hand to protect myself. God spoke clearly to my heart (not out loud to my ears, but even stronger and clearer) and said four words: "The stories are TRUE."

 

To anyone else, those four words would have been a puzzle, but to me, they explained a mystery I'd had since childhood. It was always difficult for me to accept Bible stories, because they seemed like an extension of the children's stories. How could they be true when the others were fiction? "The stories are true" resonated in my soul like a bell: Jesus died on a cross for me! For just a moment, the pains in hands and feet were palpable, and I wept in joy. He lived and died and lived again, for me!

 

That day, and every day since, are gifts from God. Prayers are unceasing, as natural as breathing, and are filled with praise. As His child, He asks for my utter faith and trust. How can I please my Father today? That's all I want!