Earlier this week, Ken's uncle killed himself. Doctors sent him home from the hospital with the news that they could no longer treat his heart problems. Nothing remained to be done. He made a choice not to fight, not to live any longer. Too much death. Too much dying. Definitely too much giving up.

I've found myself almost completely unable to focus and concentrate. When I should be working on research or my online courses, my brain just frags. I enjoy working outside, and I've been working like a crazy woman when it isn't raining. Last year was a drought year, and we beseeched heaven for every drop of rain. This year, we've had rain almost every single day since school got out.

I am heartily sick of rain. It's become symbolic of frustration, angst, struggle, and my inability to do what needs to get done.

It's been a hard day this summer. The good thing--the comfort--is that at the end of each day, I can still snuggle up next to Ken, tangle my fingers in his beard, and know that I am still held tightly in the arms of Jesus.

First, I arrived very late at the Gregg County airport. Nobody believes the "2 hours early for an international flight" line when we're talking Gregg County, but I did intend to be there over an hour early. Key word here is intend. Somehow after being in my office until 10:15 p.m. the night before trying to wrap up the "MUST do" stuff, and then being up until 3:30 a.m. at home before even starting to pack, then of course dragging out of bed and trying to pack on very little sleep . . . .

By the time I got there, the overbooked plane was full. No volunteers to wait. So American handed me a $250 travel voucher (that part was nice), scared up a van to drive me and another passenger to Shreveport, and put us (just barely in time!) on a plane to Dallas in time to catch our next flight. Landed in Dallas with 10 minutes to spare before boarding the next flight and still had to change terminals etc. As things ended, up, I needn't have stressed quite as much as I did, rushing from one terminal to another. The Shreveport to Dallas flight was the only one of the trip to leave remotely on time.

But I get ahead of myself. TSA loves me. They love to search my luggage. Every time I travel, I open my bag to find a little paper inside that says "TSA was here, pawing through your stuff." Don't ask me why. I usually have no trouble with airport security on the walk through level. But at Shreveport--maybe just BECAUSE the ticket agent was there encouraging TSA to hurry because the flight was (supposedly) about to leave without me--the agent scanned my carry on three (count them, THREE) times, opened it, took some things out to scan individually--go figure. I'm so suspicious.

We arrive in Dallas, rush around, then wait for an hour until the late plane arrives so we can leave an hour late for San Francisco. The San Francisco to Sidney flight (stop over on the way to Melbourne--supposed to be just a quick in and out) left an hour and a half late because they had to "off-load a sick crew member." At Sidney, the luggage hatch wouldn't close, so we waited an hour and half on that. Then we waited a half hour on landing in Melbourne before luggage came down the ramp while they worked at getting it open again. I learned just to close my eyes, go to sleep and not care when the plane took off. Got a lot more sleep that way.

You know how after you've been at the ocean all day, when you sit still or close your eyes, you can still feel the waves? That's how I feel now. I can still feel the plane moving under me--the vibration and rocking sort of movement. Very disturbing when you're in a 5-story hotel (paying $6 Aussie dollars per hour for Internet access).

So this afternoon I got checked in to the hotel and didn't feel very well. Then I realized I hadn't eaten anything since about 5:00 this morning--airline breakfast. Oops. Jet lag really messes with your appetite as well as your sense of timing. Went out and got a sandwich and feel better. Now if the world would just hold still . . . Going to try to arrange a day trip for tomorrow--make good use of my one sightseeing day. After making those arrangements, I'm going to hit the pool and hot tub, take a long hot shower, and climb into bed early.

First impressions of Melbourne--London, New York, and Honolulu rolled into one. Sidewalk cafes are everywhere. People relax on the street for a coffee, and when you sit down among them, if you're among five conversations, they are likely to be in five languages. Alleys full of tourist-trap shops link major streets. The huge and grand butts itself up against the cheap and trashy. People wear absolutely anything. Great people-watching place.

My time is nearly up. More later.

Yesterday, I screwed up. I hurt someone unintentionally--and even unknowingly. Even after the fact, I had no idea my words had offended someone I would never want to hurt or offend. I found out when someone else, offended on behalf of the person I had hurt, made it known to me in an e-mail designed, I think, not so much to inform as to lash out in anger, to revenge. In sum, it concluded that I am someone "to avoid like the plague."

Several years ago, I had a very difficult but life-defining experience. Sparing the details, I will say only that it resulted in commitment to a decision that if someone wants to avoid me, I won't make it difficult to do so. That's a game I just won't play. I am deeply grieved, however, to add these who are dear to me to the (thankfully short) list of people I will not trouble with my presence. I feel like part of me died today.

What saddens me most is wording that indicates a past attitude hidden from me. They have acted as though all was well between us. I thought it was. Time and care, pieced together and invested in them seems to have evaporated. I realize the e-mail was written in anger and crafted to hurt. It hit its mark, but it also revealed that either its presentation or the other that has been shown me was a lie, and now I feel that I can trust neither. How can a relationship be built on that?

So I mourn.

Adorable as a puppy, rescued from the heat and dust of a cage in Canton, he grew into an odd combination of short wooly and long wiry fur and gaping vacancy behind the eyes. Ken's aunt summed it up well: "Is that a dog?"

He has been called many names and compared to many creatures, chiefly rodents, real and cinematic (chiefly the R.O.U.S. variety.) For the last several months, Murphy's life has consisted of eat, sleep, fart, leave "presents" on the carpet, and dig in the yard. The backyard looks like a scene from Holes.

Still, he lived and loved. His grip on our hearts is not as tight as Chester's was, but I will miss him.