It was about this time last summer when that flower bloomed; and this time last summer, as well, when my grandmother continued to fight the brutal cancer that eventually defeated her on September 5th (also my birthday, and I was honored that she chose that day to meet Jesus).

So, last August as my daughters and I watched that little flower defy the car tires and careless footsteps day after day, I finally made sense of it.  To me, this flower was an emblem of courage, tenacity and strength of Grandma.  This woman, who literally wrestled steers, kids and the kitchen that fed our large brood, possessed a soft exterior and hard-as-nails will that made a difference in our family. More than that, though, I believe that Grandma, our matriarch, has already passed on her backbone and fortitude to the rest of the women in our clan.  We’re all just tough.   Period.  Just like the zinnia.

Today, August 12th, would have been Grandma’s 84th birthday.  Happy Birthday, Grandma.  And thanks for sending me a flower this week.

That’s not to say that I don’t respect our military that is over there, because I really, truly do.  I have always had the deepest amount of reverence and admiration for the men and women who commit their lives, talents and skills to the various branches of our military.  I usually see them when I’m at the airport, and I am in awe of the way they carry themselves, with both determination and humility on their faces.  I attempt to make eye contact with them, smile, and mouth a “thank you” to these anonymous soldiers who, regretfully, are fighting another man’s war without complaint.

Now, though, it’s personal.  Within a few weeks I will have two more of my family members in a war zone.  I have morphed into a protective she-bear.

The Air Force calls him Lt. Col. William Peterson, but everyone who knows him well simply calls him BC.  Just over five months between our two ages, he and his brother Jarrod have always been like brothers instead of cousins to my sister and me. As I look back on all of those summers at our grandparents’ farm in Kansas, it’s a wonder how we survived the motorcycle slalom courses through the pasture, and not caring that the speedometer on the old Jeep didn’t work as we flew down the dirt road at the fearless age of twelve.  I know he has twice the courage now, as he walks across the airfield he commands in Kadahar, Afghanistan.

Specialist Matthew VanWagoner of the Army’s Attack Company 5-20 is my 22-year-old cousin who is on fire and ready to deploy on August 2nd.  With a kind spirit and an unashamed openness in his love for his family, he becomes the hero for every young person he meets (just ask all of the kids in our family).  It’s been amazing to watch Matt grow through the years, attend the school of hard knocks, and finally find his home in the Army.  I couldn’t be more proud…and scared.  I trust his intelligence and training, but I don’t trust the psycho “soldiers” (and I use the term loosely) in Kuwait and the sand pits of Iraq who would rather him not be in their country.

So here is my message to President Obama et al:  Don’t even think about making any more decisions that may hurt my family.  If anything happens to them, you will be held personaly responsible.

So that evening after dinner and a nice chat with Papo, he retired to his apartment for the night and I left my daughters (safe and zoned out on the TV) in search of an Internet connection in order to check my email and work on a project (the joy of being self-employed…no such thing as a true vacation).  On the 2nd-floor mezzanine, past the pub and near the spa (seriously) I found a lovely conference room and library, and a place to plug in my Mac (cue the parting of the clouds, angelic chorus).

I couldn’t have been there more that a few minutes when I heard a series of thumps from an angry cane followed a succession of expletives about someone leaving the light on in the conference room. Here he comes…and I braced myself.

Into the doorway jumped a feisty old gentleman on fire – and he was determined to turn out the light.  Poor thing – I knew that as soon as I said something I would scare him out of his skin, and sure enough I did:  “I’ll turn out the <expletive> light as soon as I’m finished in here,” I said with my twangy Texas-big-haired lady-voice (I had been practicing this voice for years, waiting for an opportunity like this to present itself).

The gentleman, instantly flustered, hobbled in and apologized profusely for “cursin’ in front of a lady.”  I assured him I had heard much worse; apology accepted.

Within the next thirty minutes I became completely enthralled with this man.  A hybrid of Ross Perot and Clem Kadiddlehopper in their eighties, he introduced himself as Cowboy Bob.  We talked of computers, football and Dr. Seuss, and together we seemed to solve all the world’s problems within a short time.

The conversation became even better when he asked what time that Papo and I planned to eat breakfast the next morning.  “You’re meeting your grandpa at 7:30?  Oh, it’s too bad we won’t see you.  My girlfriend and I are eating at 6:30 so that we can catch the shuttle bus to go to her eye doctor.”

“You have a girlfriend??” I sat back.  Yes, he did.  And why shouldn’t he, or anyone else there for that matter.  How amazing, I thought.  Why didn’t it occur to me before that in any large group of old souls there are bound to be some connections made?

With a twinkle in his eye, he chatted on about how he would stay in his previous girlfriend’s room on the first floor until 11:00 at night, watching Animal Planet together.

Now I was confused, wondering just how many girlfriends were in the picture. “What happened to your girlfriend on the first floor?” I asked.

“She died,“ he said.

“Oh.  I’m sorry,” I said.  Again, one of the harsh realities of living somewhere that, truthfully, is likely the last place most of these folks will live before passing on.

I didn’t have time to be sad for him, because I saw on Cowboy Bob’s face that he was at peace with it all.  He had blissfully found another friend, another woman to care for and love:  “The girlfriend that I’m taking to the eye doctor tomorrow is my new girlfriend,” he explained. Cowboy Bob and I talked awhile longer; then he said good night.

I left the little room that night with a changed outlook on a lot of things.  Although many of us may resist, we are made to love others, right up until our last breath.  And at any age, God made us to need a companion, and BE a companion.  Friends, family, lovers and spouses pass on from our lives, but in each of us there still lays the innate need to keep loving, and to exchange the gift of love with someone else.   Here’s the best part:  When you love the mind and soul of a person, long after their body has broken down and their magazine-style beauty is a thing of the past, that is love in its raw, purest form.  This is the love that I think God intended for us, as in 1st Corinthians 13.   It just doesn’t get any better than that.

I didn’t have the opportunity of seeing him again that week at the center, but I hope to do so during my next trip to see Papo.  When I see Cowboy Bob again, I’m looking forward to asking him about the shows he likes to watch on Animal Planet.  Better yet, I might just ask him about the pretty lady who sits next to him while he’s watching.

It’s not that I have a blazing need to be heard – it’s really more of a need to empty my head of the forty-eleven thoughts that need constant sorting and classification. Sometimes I think I have adult ADD (you remember ADD – the condition that didn’t exist when we were growing up?). In fact, I’ve thought about getting tested for it, but every time I think about making an appointment, I get distracted. So there it is.

Thanks for joining the ride.