I didn't mean to stay home and watch the Whitney Houston funeral. I actually had considered going to church myself. Once I had decided to stay home, the plan was to rest for a little while until I felt like doing something less lazy. I really had no intention of watching the Whitney Houston funeral. I mean, I like her music, but I didn't think I would care about the memorial service. But then one of my Facebook friends posted something about BeBe and CeCe Winans, and I thought, "Wow, I wonder what great music I'm missing by not watching that funeral!" So I turned on the TV and tuned in. And I'm glad I did.


The tributes to Whitney Houston were touching and heartfelt. The music was INCREDIBLE! I especially loved hearing CeCe Winans, as well as her brothers Marvin and Carvin. Sure, there were headliners, such as Alicia Keys and Stevie Wonder, but, personally, I preferred the gospel singers, who are well-known in their own right, of course.

I soon realized that though I was not sitting in a church, I was experiencing an amazing worship service. Sure, people were there to honor the life of a performer, but they were also there to uplift God's name and to praise God for God's gifts. It was truly beautiful and a testament to the faith of this woman who grew up in the Lord.

It made me kind-of sad that we didn't hear about this more. I mean, most of us knew that Whitney Houston had roots in the church, but we heard so little about her faith. My favorite Whitney Houston movie (and subsequent soundtrack) is "The Preacher's Wife," in which she starred with Denzel Washington and Courtney Vance. The most popular song from the soundtrack is "I Believe in You and Me," but my favorite song is "Who Would Imagine a King?" It's a lullaby for the baby Jesus, and it is quite beautiful. It's quite a contrast to the power ballads and pop hits and even the gospel songs that Ms. Houston is known for. Instead, it highlights her gorgeous voice and her control of her instrument. The album itself contains some very nice gospel-type music that is not often heard on mainstream movie soundtracks.



But back to my observation. Although I knew about Whitney Houston's gospel background, I really never heard the media talk about her faith. We heard a lot about her talent and then later her marital problems and addiction issues, but we rarely heard about her first love--Jesus Christ.


So this made me think. If I were to die, would people speak of my love for Jesus at my funeral? And would some people be shocked to hear about it? Is the life I'm living a reflection of the God I live for? Am I pointing people toward the Kingdom of God? This funeral actually left me with a lot to think about.

So I may have skipped services at my home church yesterday, but in an unexpected way, I was able to worship God and to hear God's voice. Pretty cool, right?

It has been awhile since I blogged. I fell that I am not managing my time well. I honestly should be able to accomplish more in a day than I actually do.

Thank you again for your condolences and gestures of caring after the death of my beloved Milo. He was an amazing dog, and I still miss him every day.

Meanwhile, we have found a new friend to live with us at our house.

I have other pictures of him, but they are still in my camera, and I'm too lazy to upload them right now. So these will have to do.

Our new friend's name is Barney. He was adopted from the Northeast Los Angeles County Animal Shelter about 1 month ago. He was a stray and had been at the shelter for a month before we adopted him, so he was pretty yucky and stinky when he came to live at our house. He even had paint on his fur. He was also not neutered, so he had to go to the doctor first and then came to our house post-op. (Hence, the cone.) He had to wear the cone for 2 weeks and was not allowed to have a bath until the cone came off.

Now he is all clean and feeling at home. He sleeps on the kitchen love seat and has many toys to play with. Yesterday he ate Mom's breakfast leftovers from the table, dug through the recyling and spread paper all over the floor, and tore the feet off of one of his (actually Milo's) toys. He also has learned the sound of the garage opening and how to rest his head on my lap while I'm studying. He is becoming "my dog" but is also "our dog," since Pop went to the shelter with me this time. He is a friendly, sweet, dog, if a bit rough around the edges. He's not as gentle as Milo and Tim Tam, but with patience he will learn to be.

I am still in mourning for Milo. I miss him every day and cry about him often. But I am learning to love my new dog and to give him the life he did not have in the shelter. I'll keep you updated.

Grief is exhausting. Thank you to everyone who sent their condolences about the loss of my sweet Milo. It has been a very hard week for me. I stayed in bed for two days until I had to get up to teach a class. I have been back to bed on and off since then. I cried so much in the first 24 hours that I gave myself abrasions on my eyelids. I had to sleep with the windows open for several days, even when I was cold, because my bedroom smelled like dog. Yes, it has been hard. But I managed to get some work accomplished today, and I did go to school yesterday. (Oh, that was rough. My knees actually buckled when I walked in the door at home.) My eyelids are back to normal. Febreze appropriately directed does wonders. And there have been several of you...

So thank you especially to:

V for checking on me regularly and the cookie-baking session
P for calling and texting
M for the beautiful letter
R for letting me cry on your shoulder
T for understanding enough to let me off the hook tonight

...and to the rest of you who were so kind to me.

FYI, I am not going to answer any of the questions some of you asked. This is not something I want to discuss. And, no, I am not going to get another dog right away. I understand the reasoning when some of you have suggested this, but we all grieve differently. The next one will come along when the time is right, just as Ginger, Tim Tam, and Milo did. Until then, my arms will be empty. Again, thank you...

I've never been anyone's favorite. You may think that's a strange statement, but it's true. As the third child, it's hard to be the favorite. I have a theory that within families, aunties and uncles choose their favorites by whoever is the "baby" when they are falling in love. So my oldest sister was my Auntie Jemimah and Uncle Jerrys's favorite, and my second sister was my Auntie Daisy and Uncle Gerhard's favorite. No one was in love when I was the baby, so I ended up being no one's favorite.

By the time I came along, everyone was too busy even to give me a nickname, even a funny one, such as "Neng Neng" or "Lors." I was just the generic "Anak," the kid. My friend S loves to give nicknames to women. He names them after actresses, characters in movies and TV and comics and books; he plays with variants on their names and their looks. But he's never given me a nickname in all these years, because he only gives nicknames to beautiful women. Only once has he even called me "Kat," and that was because he was trying to impress another girl. It's always Kathy or, when he is angry, he uses my last name. The only time I ever had a true nickname was when A and J used to call me "Pokey," because they thought my long hair reminded them of Pocahantas. They have no idea how much it meant to me to have a nickname, even though it was a silly one. A nickname shows endearment. I needed that.

In school I was smart but didn't know it. I didn't really excel until I was much older. I was relatively quiet and didn't get a whole lot of attention. I still don't. I certainly wasn't anyone's favorite in school. I was just...there.

But for almost 39 months of my life, I finally learned what it was like to be someone's favorite. When I went to the shelter that day, I actually had a list of dogs I wanted to look at. It was the third time I'd been to the shelter, and no dog had felt right. I looked at the dogs on my list but didn't think any of them was right. I walked up and down the aisles several times, not sure why I didn't leave, but I had to look again and again. One cage had a sign on it that said, "Shepherd mix." As much as I love German shepherds, I was not sure that I could handle a dog that needed as much attention as a shepherd needs. So I walked by without looking. But he was looking. I walked by that cage at least 4 times, each time noticing that the dog in the cage was watching me intently. He would follow me with his head every time. I finally stopped to look and realized that he wasn't a German shepherd at all; he looked more like a beagle.  Since a beagle had just won the Westminster dog show the night before, I was drawn to beagles. (Also, a cute boy once told me I should own a beagle, so I have a thing for them.) But this dog wasn't a beagle; he was too big. Turns out that he was a harrier, and I had to do some research to learn about the breed. So that was how Milo chose me. I was his favorite from the very beginning.

It took him a full year to the day to decide to sleep on my bed. He had graduated from his bed in the kitchen to the whole kitchen to my bedroom floor. But on the anniversary of his adoption, he decided that he was going to sleep on the bed. And he did. He would usually jump down after a little while and spend the night on the floor--or lately, on the floor of my closet--but as soon as it got light, he would be back up on the bed. Sometimes I wouldn't even know he was there until I woke up.  If I was too close to the edge of the bed, he would cry until I woke up and moved to give him room to jump up. Or sometimes he would just jump on me. When I woke up, I'd say "Let's go, Milo." He would scoot up from his place at my feet until he was close enough to pet. Then I would rub and tickle his belly. He would roll on his back in utter joy. We played like this until he would sneeze from being on his back for too long. Then we would do it again. Then I'd say, "Let's go, Milo." He'd jump down and be ready to start our day.

If I went out during the day, even if it was just to go to the car, he would be waiting when I came home, usually with a toy.
 I admit that I couldn't resist buying him toys; they made him so happy. He would bring the toy to the door, but when I would try to take it, he would run away. If, however, I did not say, "Thank you, Milo," and try to take the toy, he would follow me around with it, pushing it against my thighs and rear until I gave him appropriate acknowledgement.

Another of our favorite activities was when I would sit on the top step in the hallway. He would sit right next to me then all of a sudden put his head on my chest and lean...hard. I would pet and pet and pet him until he would slide down and put his head on my lap. Sometimes he would fall asleep, but sometimes I would say, "Let's go," and we would run down the stairs.

My parents loved Milo. Milo knew them as "Grandma" and "Grandpa." If my dad went to take the trash out or if my dad went somewhere and Milo heard the car returning, Milo would whimper by the door until "Grandpa" came back in. If he heard the car coming, he would look around, deciding which toy to bring with him. At dinner, Milo would put his head on my dad's lap, hoping his cuteness would get him a treat from the table. But as much as he loved my parents, mine was the bed he slept in and mine was the room he thought of as his.

I was his favorite. For the first time in my life, I was someone's favorite. And he was mine. I called him "Milo, Milito, the Mexican dog." He wasn't really, of course. I was just making up a song to sing to him one day (something he thought was very strange), and it sounded like a Mexican song. So he became "Milo, Milito, the Mexican dog," with his own special song.

I do not have very much. (I know you're thinking, "yes, you do," but stick with me here.) I have been begging God for a job, love, a house, a family. Milo was all of those things. He was my one true love, my child, my family. He made this house (my parents' house) a home in a way I didn't know existed. Being his mommy was the one job I truly loved. He was my loyal companion
,
 my brave protector,
my best friend.
He saved my life, just by being. He was the only one who truly loved me first, and he made sure to let me know it. "Am I your favorite, Milo?" I would ask. He would lick my face and kiss me. "You're my favorite," I would respond. You're my own baby dog, and I love you. You're my own precious dog forever."

He put up with my crazy schemes and costumes,
 just to be with me. He was mine, my very own, the one thing that was my very own. I do not know why God would take away my one thing from me. God has not seen fit to give me the other things I have asked for; instead, God took away the one thing I had. I am devastated and hurt and angry. I cannot understand why God could be so cruel to take away my one true love.

I'm sure that most of you have heard about the airplane that crashed into a cemetery in Montana on Sunday. I hadn't realized that the families on the plane were all Adventists and that all of the seven adults were LLU alumni. Here's the article my sister sent me. And here's the story from the L.A. Times. My sister actually worked with a man whose son, daughter-in-law, and 3 grandchildren were killed in the crash.

Please pray for the families of Vanessa & Mike, Sydney, and Christopher Pullen; Amy & Erin, Tayor, Ava, and Jude Jacobson; Brent and Kristen, Hailey, and Caleb Ching; and Bud Summerfield.

I recently learned about Randy Pausch. Apparently, I'm late in this discovery, since Randy Pausch was recently selected (on Beliefnet.com) as the most inspirational person of 2008. He made a speech in September of 2007 that was titled "Achieving Your Childhood Dreams." Video of what came to be known as The Last Lecture spread all over, and millions of people considered Dr. Pausch's approach to life and death inspirational. There's some info on Dr. Pausch here. I finally got around to watching the whole lecture, and I must admit that it was pretty cool.

I suppose everyone who watches the lecture or who reads the book gets something different from it. For example, I'm sure that the teaching part isn't what necessarily appealled to the majority of people, but it's definitely something that jumped out at me. It reminded me of how much I love being a teacher, how blessed I am to be a teacher, and how important it is that I share this blessing with the world.

Still, I wasn't as super-inspired as people seemed to have been by the words of Dr. Pausch. Not that it wasn't good . . . it was good and inspiring. And I highly recommend watching the video, if you have 1-1/4 hours to spare.

Dr. Pausch gives a lot of good advice, and there are many lessons to be learned. The one I will take for 2009 is this: Am I a Tigger or an Eeyore? As most of you know, I tend toward the Eeyore side. But I'm trying to change that--really. I honestly don't think I have to be a Tigger all of the time. That would madden me AND everyone I meet. But I think there's room for more Tigger and less Eeyore in my life. :D

As I said before, it's a good lecture. It may make you cry. If you do watch it, I'd love to hear what you have to say about it.

I got home from a very pleasant time at my aunt's house yesterday to read this. So sad. Pray for those injured and for the families affected.

I have to admit, I don't remember ever hearing of Mildred Loving before today. But when I read of her death in this article, I found myself sad that I had never heard her story until now. In 1958 Mildred Loving married the love of her life, completely unaware of the fact that their marriage was illegal. You see, Mildred was black, and her husband Richard was white. Their interracial marriage was against the law in 17 states. This led to an arrest, a trial, and, eventually, the driving out of the couple from their home state. The story of Mildred and Richard is inspiring and gives me hope that true love does exist in the world.

she never wanted to be a hero — just a bride

So rest in peace, Mildred Loving. Thank you for standing up for love.

Someone I met on Facebook sent me this article by Craig Ferguson on the death of his father. (Thanks, Annette!) It's a really good read, and I highly recommend it. Some of you might know that the day after Craig Ferguson's father died, he dedicated the entire hour of his show as a tribute to his father. It was beautiful and touching (and Emmy-nominated!).

My favorite part of this article was Craig's list of "5 Moments That Define a Man." Wow. Speechless.

Craig is more than just a funny guy. He's an articulate, thoughtful, sensitive man who never ceases to hold my interest.

I just wish I could meet someone like him that isn't dating a 23-year-old blonde skinny rich person . . . *sigh*

If you want to be sad, read this story about a pair of dogs that sacrificed their lives for their owners.

Here are some pictures of me and Tim Tam, taken by Stephen. :)

Tim Tam was adopted on March 17, 2007. He died on December 27, 2007. He was my best friend. I miss him very much.

Meanwhile, I found this article that explains why it's so important to have pets.

In Memoriam

Today I found out that last month one of my former students died in a motorcycle accident. It's not the first time that one of my students has died, but it really never gets any easier.

John Samuel was in my geometry class, probably around 1999. He was a good student who worked hard. He was competitive about his grades, which was sometimes annoying but also helped him get the grades he wanted in my class. I remember him hanging around my classroom after class to talk to me, not just about school but about other things as well.

After high school John eventually ended up at UCLA. He graduated on June 17th of this year. Hours later, in the early morning hours, his motorcycle went over an embankment on the 405 freeway. John sustained fatal injuries in the accident.

I hadn't seen John at all since we both left Alemany. I was shocked and sad to hear of his death. Please join me in praying for his family and friends.