Well it is official.  Abbey, my beautifully obstinate German Shepherd is underway with training to be an ADA service dog for me.  There are A LOT of fake service dogs out there, and they are not hard to identify, but the only thing she is faking in her picture is a lack of hair.  Yes, that is MY skull cap that I wear because I “corrected” the haircut my wife gave me poorly.  Her haircut was fine, my ability to think it was fine was not.  So I “corrected” it to the point that I had to shave my head.  I assure you that Abbey has a full head of hair underneath my cap.  She is just being supportive.

Yesterday we went into Lowes as part of her training.  She did great, although she was not too sure what to do with the Halloween witches and the fork lifts.  In her prior training she would most likely rip them to shreds, but she is now on course to become something different.

It makes me mindful that where we are in life need not define us.  I sometimes struggle with that, as I am often deeply dissatisfied with where I have seemed to end up.  But in truth, I have time, and I need to afford myself a bit of grace.  God can do for me what I struggle to do with myself.  And if I have any doubts about that at all, my dog can take off my skull cap and motivate me with a quick bite in the tail.

In the meantime, I think I will just listen and go along.  I am glad her hair looks good under that cap, and look forward to the day that mine does too.

Tommy+

First of all, I want to be clear that this post is not about me.  I am not fishing for sympathies, nor do I have any other ulterior motives. But as I post this, my family lays my Uncle Mickey to rest.  He is the middle of three brothers, the other two being my Uncle Al who is the oldest, and my dad who is the youngest.  In the main picture, he is on the right, my dad in the middle, and my Uncle Al on the left. It is not their only pose from my brother Mike’s wedding, but the only one I could post here.  The other picture is of my Uncle Mickey with my Aunt Judy, which I shamelessly stole from Aunt Judy’s Facebook feed last night.  Uncle Mickey entered eternal life on May 5^th.

I have to admit I am saddened that I am not there, as I should be.  I was told the services were yesterday, and that there were two of them. And then last night I was told there was another today.  As a priest, I found all that a bit odd, so when I got home from the hospital at about 10:30pm I looked it up for myself.  Those were visitations yesterday, and the funeral is right now. And had I taken responsibility for myself instead of being confused, I would be in New York right now.  I cannot express how disappointed I am in myself, but confession is good for the soul, and the very fact that I will be making this a parallel post concurrent with his funeral, is an inadequate attempt to feel better.  I wanted to be there because of who my Uncle Mickey has been to me my entire life.

As I said, with all the introductory remarks aside, the post is not about me.  But TO me my Uncle Mickey was a giant of a man.  I will turn 57 next month, and there has never been a time in my life that I do not remember him, and every single interaction, every single conversation, every single moment to me was a blessing.  At my brother Mike’s wedding last year, Amanda and I were seated at a small family table that included my Uncle Mickey and Aunt Judy, along with my Uncle Al.  I talked for days about what a high honor that was to me.  At 56, somehow I still see myself at some kids table, but perhaps that was a time for lessons learned.

You see, I am old enough to remember two generations above them.  “Pop,” my great-grandfather, and then my Uncles (great uncles, although all uncles are great) Wally and Bobby who were my grandfather’s brothers.  I had met my grandfather, but he died in the 1960’s, so I have no memory of him…….but through all these men I really do.

You see, all of them taught me the importance of family, especially my Uncle Mickey.  Every time I ever saw him he would tell me to come visit them in New York, every time there was a function out here in Indiana he and my Aunt Judy were here.  You could not see him for some time, but when you saw him he treated you like you were never apart.  He was straightforward and solid, always had a joke, and really probably more than any of the Tirmans I have ever known, taught me the importance of laughter. And for those of you who know me, you might realize I got more than my share there.

But Uncle Mickey’s steadfast profession of family and laughter to me also taught me that being a Tirman meant something.  I have a lot of places in life where feel as if I do not belong.  But one of the things always heard Uncle Mickey say was that “we’re family.”  It is a lesson I have tried very hard to teach my kids.  Getting Scotty to call my cousin Kenny (one of Uncle Mickey’s sons) when Scotty was stationed out in California in the Marine Corps was like convincing someone to go voluntarily get a root canal.  Scotty had been invited and poked and prodded, and the first time he did go see Kenny and his wife, the Scotty called shortly thereafter and said, “Dad, it only took me about 10 seconds to see that they were family.” Go figure.  I have not seen Kenny in years, but all of us can expect that from each other or our kids.  And no one taught me better about that than my Uncle Mickey.

Oh there are countless funny stories, wonderful and sometimes inappropriate jokes, tons of laughter, and a great reason to celebrate a man who made sure we had all that. One of my favorites was Scotty and Stephanie going to New York to visit with my dad, Debby, and my sister Anna. There was a “disagreement” about who would get the more comfortable sleeping arrangement, Steph or Scott.  They of course are siblings, so my Uncle Mickey intervened as asked Scotty to consider what if his sister was Jesus?  They still crack up at the whole conversation, but a spoiler alert is that apparently Scotty did not care if his sister was Jesus, but will probably ask for forgiveness someday.

If I were there I would share the countless stories I have and listen to tons of others I did not know. And chances are I would be smiling and laughing all day.  A funeral is meant to be a celebration of life, and when it comes to a life to celebrate, his was a good one.  To me, he will remain one of the most influential people in my life.

And I guess that is part of why I am troubled in spirit about not being there by my own fault.  But a passage came to my mind as I was driving into the hospital this morning, and ironically it is from the burial office. It is from John 14.

            Jesus said, “Let not your hearts be troubled. Trust in God;^[a] trust also in me. ² In my Father’s house are many rooms. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you?^[b] 3 And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also. ⁴ And you know the way to where I am going.”^[c] 5 Thomas said to him, “Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?” ⁶ Jesus said to him, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me. 

I cannot be troubled. Yes, I am saddened to not be there, but I am not troubled.  Over the course of my vocation as a priest I have had countless, and deep conversations with my Uncle Mickey.  Among my family, my conversations with him were never irreverent and always affirming. Being the only priest in a family known for its irreverence is both a blessing and a curse, but either way always fun, and a blessing to be a part of.

But more than anything, when my Uncle Mickey discontinued treatment, and resolved to let go of this life, I knew he was certain of what he was doing.  His work in this life had come to its end, and he left much more to me and to others than he ever took.  But beyond that, he also knew where he was going.  He was no novice to faith, and my countless conversations prove that to me without a doubt.  So I am saddened, yet I also rejoice, for death is not the end of his story, but a new chapter.  And one day I know I will see him again.

Today, however, I pray for my family and wish I were with them.  I thank God for my Uncle Mickey and for who he has been in this life.  I pray for my Aunt Judy, and all my cousins and their children……for my whole family, each and every one of them.  Blessings to you my dear Uncle, and may your soul, and the souls of all the Faithful Departed rest in peace.

Faithfully,

Tommy+

Today has been a challenging day.  I would like to say I have handled it well, but I am really not the one who needs to decide that.  In fact, I realize my perceptions are filled with bias, and sometimes, okay frequently, not all that accurate.

But my dog, Abbey, is a pretty good barometer.  Sure, she loves me, but then again she has been trained and continues to be trained as a support dog for me.  She stays close when I am not doing well, and abandons me without regret for my wife or the boy if she knows I am doing okay.

I came home tonight and she seemed to have a need to read me.  She stayed close, entertained me a bit, went through a bit of assessment, and then dismissed me.  I will trust her.  She does not NEED ME like my wife and youngest son, who clearly need my presence and direction just to make it through the day. (I can verify this by the acknowledgment that I am both a trophy husband and the #1 dad…because Ben gave me a shirt that says so).  But more reliable than a wife and son who lies to you is a German Shepherd who is not capable of such collusion.

So I take not only solace in Abigail’s opinion, but I also stake my life upon it.  As long as I appease her, I am doing okay.

Today has been a challenging day, but thanks to the steadfast honesty of a German Shepherd, and my trust in her assessments……I will take comfort in her opinion that I am, at least, okay.

Blessings!

Tommy+

You know there are times I like to feel a sense of surety, because I believe that often with surety comes security.  Feeling insecure in life, really about anything, can really cause problems.  It can raise fear and falsely justify feelings that arise from these same insecurities.

I like to believe that I am a confident guy, that I have everything I want to have under my control, but in reality, rarely in life do we enjoy the real fruits of such delusion. In truth, life is full of uncertainty.  It is riddled with unanswered questions.  Our pasts raise fear and our futures raise anxiety.

Yet in the midst of this reality, I find that I can let go of anxiety and fear, not because they are not there, but because of both who and whose I am.  God does not promise the absence of struggle, but instead the comfort of His presence.

I spend most days not knowing what outcome I am heading towards, but do know that I need not fear the past or be anxious about tomorrow.  I will be taken care of today, to the extent that I have faith, and trust, in a God who loves me and calls me to be His own.

Blessings!

Tommy+

Tom, you started writing your blog again because you completed those additional degrees you started, and they helped you have something to do with your mind instead of blogging.  You started, because after your stoke you had trouble with your memory and putting thoughts together.  (I would write “coherent” but why don’t we just stick with thoughts?)

Yes, you are still not doing anything other than being a priest.  Your recent degrees qualify you to work as a therapist in Clinical Mental Health and Addictions, but if you want to work AT ALL in these fields, then you should apply for more than just TWO positions in 10 months.

Yes, you are remodeling your basement.  And yes, your wife is the designer, which makes it naturally difficult, but most people can work with and for your wife.  What makes you so brain dead on pulling the trigger?  Yes, many years of marriage may be an excuse, however you show better work elsewhere.

So let’s get off this, and get into the race.  Age has nothing to do with it as you are still 18 in your mind, far younger than two of your three kids.  The time is now, and now is painful when you lie about your age, but I did not put that out there, you did.

So somedays you will keep writing, and other days, maybe good days, you won’t.  But you are still at it, and I encourage you, as yourself, to keep making progress.  No one other than some young buck who wants your life will finish it.  It is clear, it is up to you!

AND, take a damn picture of YOURSELF sometime.  YOU EXIST!  People get really tired of you posting pictures of your good-looking kids and dogs.

I love you old man.

Tommy+

My wife uses a very irritating phrase to make it clear to me that I am not pulling my share, and the phrase is. “I am only one horse.”  This is no surprise from a girl who grew up on a cattle ranch, but certainly utter nonsense in that she looks nothing like a horse.  And as old and desperate as I appear to anyone, I still believe I can swear under oath that I would not be in any kind of relationship with a horse.

But about 8 or 9 years ago we did move from a house we owned in Noblesville to where we live today in Edgewood, Indiana.  The house we live in is actually the old Frisch home (yes, of the Big Boy fame), and it is quite a bit more work.

A lot of that last sentence has to do with that one horse.  We have 3 kids, we have only one living here as the other two are adults.  We have bedrooms for each of them, despite only needing one extra bedroom, but there is always the possibility they could reappear at any moment and leave us at full capacity.

Mrs. Frisch apparently had a room for her furs made of cedar.  I have not only seen it, but I have converted it into a craft room.  I also, with the help of out daughter Stephanie, built a half bath outside of the craft room, just in case crafting became so important that one could not make it upstairs.  But that has only a little to do with crafting and a lot to do with marriage.  Yes, my wife thought we out to gut everything and put a full bath and bedroom down there, as well as gut and renovate the downstairs fireplace room.  All we left alone was the bar in between, and I do not even drink anymore..  I do have to walk through it between these projects.

But I should be done at the end of the month with everyone other than drywall and flooring.  It has taken a lot of time, but I am not a horse, in my old age, I am far more akin to a lizard (who does home improvement) than a majestic animal on which warriors ride.  And in all honesty, I am close to an ex reptile.

I said the last time we moved that this was it, and I am still committed to only the coroner or the undertaker removing my body from this place.  I just want to finish this project, or death wish, and enjoy it, and I intend to invite you all.

But for now I will just keep at it, and hope I do not run into any additional, or potential mortal wounds.

Pray for me.  I thought she was looking for a husband, but I think it was a general contractor.  Either way for me, I am going out with a finished product!

Blessings!

Tommy+

Yes, this is my youngest son in the featured image.  Ben is 10, and although he is not the youngest Tirman, not only from my dad’s line, he is the youngest we will post pictures of.  Scotty and Kenzie have a son Issac who just turned 1, and the next young man is due within the next month, but there is a lot of similarities in Tirman males.

I signed onto Facebook tonight as I was tired of not posting due to the illness making its way through our house and saw a picture of Ben that I was sure was my brother Mike.  Here however is a picture of Mike and Ben, they do not look alike at all (currently)  Ben is under 5 feet and Mike is above 6.  I would like to say I am taller than the both, but “we are men of honor, and lying does not become us.”  Yes, that is from a movie.

But Ben and Scotty also look alike, and it confuses even the technology that identifies faces in pictures,  and if we go to young pictures, most of us all look the same.  We are a similar lot, but more than that, we also seem to marry exceptional women who help keep this insanity of reproducing these amazing your men, except for my dad, who I believe is close to 130 and pictures of him which DO show the similarities are found mostly painted on the sides of caves, and as I have confessed, most of mine are in black and white.  The point I need to make is that Tirman genetics seems to produce a certain type of male.  They are handsome and successful, and their senses of humor are constantly growing on steroids.  The Lord only knows where that will take us.

But to this point, we are enjoying the ride.  I am proud to be close to all of them.  We are like a fraternity we never asked to join nor should be allowed to join.  Yet we also have a sweet deal in that you cannot kick out family.

And be forewarned……we continue to breed.  Whether that is good or bad we have all agreed to let history decide.

Blessings!

Tommy+

Although most anyone, except anyone with any type of romantic relationship with me over the course of my lifetime, would tell you I am the ideal man for them, my wife would without a doubt or hesitation, trade me for a goat.  If there were indeed any type of treatment protocol for such insanity, believe me I would be more than happy to use the money she makes to pay for it.  But for now I will just settle for my rightful place behind goats, our children, Napoleon Dynamite, and Christmas Vacation…..and without even needing to mention it, Pinterest.

The pictures I am sharing are from a visit over the summer to Grant’s Farm in St. Louis.  It is where Budweiser keeps many of their Clydesdales, and where they also have many exotic and interesting animals, all of which are less important to my wife than baby goats.

In fact, my daughter Stephanie spent her entire college career at Lindenwood, which is close to these goats.  And now she is a scientist, like my wife, and getting her PhD in something I could never quite comprehend, but at St. Louis University, even closer to these goats.  I know they had plenty discussions about school choice without me, which surprises me as I have a ton of degrees, but perhaps it is because of my concerns about this unhealthy love for goats.  

I mean really, how many videos are there of goats in pajamas.  Sure, my dog has had a pair of pajamas on before, but at least if a bad guy came into the house she would do something.  What can a goat do?

Apparently to my wife, wonders unimaginable to the human mind.  And given the crowd around the goats at Grant’s Farm and Goat Milk Stuff (where I paid for her to spend an hour in a goat area with Ben and Stephanie), let alone all the other goat places we have been, goats appear to be trending #goataddiction2018.

But as for me, the cuteness gets old.  I am certain however, as long as I am alive, and by that I mean breathing with a beating heart, and even to the extent that I can be wheeled into some pen, I will be watching her with goats.  And replying faithfully to the question, “Aren’t they cute?”  It was a part I totally must have missed in our vows.

Blessings!

Tommy+ 

There are many phases of a construction project, and as anyone who has talked to me in the last year knows, our basement encompasses all of them.  It is an old, well-built home, but that in itself makes things difficult at times.  It took us many months just to gut the places we were going to upgrade, and then the “Tom needs surgery” phase, followed by the “Tom is not allowed to lift more than a gallon of milk for two months” phase, followed by the “Tom waited the two months and then lifted stuff and was hurting, and probably needs to heal again and slowly step into it” phase, followed by the “Tom really doesn’t care about the pain any longer because he will die of old age before this project is finished” phase.

So I am back and forth the the Menards, and Lowes, and Home Depot……daily.  This leads to the picture of Lou watching me return to the car (and yes the other two are in their somewhere) from one of our “yea! Let’s go for a ride to the store” phases.  I know I hate needing to go back and forth all the time, but they love it.

And this has led to the “Ben it is about time you learn to do some of this stuff like Stephanie and Scotty did from me” phase.  This phase has been far more challenging as Ben loves to have his own tool belt and gear, but he seems to have an allergy to working, at least with me as his foreman.  Amanda is involved too, but more as a consultant.  She decides what she wants, and we try to create it.  On my FIFTH trip to Menards today, we all went.  She has to decide on tile, a bathroom fan, and light fixtures.  When she said “this tile we can just do the hallway in too,” which I had no intention of doing although I probably should have, I just shut up and added another phase onto my list.  I did believe I got her back when as I was checking out, she walked over from the candy isle and put a bag of jelly beans among the stuff.  I looked up at the girl ringing up all the stuff and said, “Ma’am, I do not even know this lady.  I am certainly not paying for her jelly beans.”  I suddenly was made of the “no woman listens or believe a middle-aged man” phase, particularly when jelly beans are on the line.

But we are now heading into the “Tom will either complete this project or die trying so we can use the life insurance to finish it up” phase.

Regardless, it will be finished one way or another!

Advil blessings to you all.

Tommy+

I had to laugh when I saw Ben unlock his iPad.  The puppy pictures are his wallpaper.  And I laughed, not because it funny, but I laughed because these are pictures of MY DOG.

Yes, we are one of those families where ever member has their own dog.  Ben has a min-Aussie named Maggie.  She is an older sister (from the litter before) to Lou, my wife’s dog who I posted about days ago.

My dog however, is supposed to be MY DOG.  She just turned two, and is a German Shepherd named Abigail.  Her registered name is Engelback vom Gizewski, as Engelbach is German for AngelCreek, which was our, and is, our AKC kennel name as we bred Golden Retrievers for many years.

Abbey started her training in 2016 for protection work.  We wanted to train her just like a police dog, or at least I did.  Her trainer was tragically killed shortly after her first 6 weeks away in late 2016, and we had her fixed and gave up having her trained professionally.  In fact, I began training her as a personal support dog, as I have enough personal issues to support my own fleet of dogs, and she has enough of the protection work to make us all feel more than safe.  We would probably have to ask her to “let go” of a dangerous bad guy if we wanted to shoot them.  So we probably do not need any more bite work.

But I still have problems with my family and how they deal with MY DOG.  When Scotty has been home I found him laughing with a big German Shepherd on his chest wagging her tail and pinning him to the ground.  When Steph is home, they run together, and are frequent nappers on the couch upon which the dog is not allowed.  My wife, one whose feet Abbey sleeps every night when she does not abandon me for Ben, calls her “my baby,” meaning her baby, not mine.  And when I complain to Ben, who is 10 going on 30, he just says, “well dad, she really is more of a family dog.”

But despite her pseudo-loyalty to all of them, I know in my heart she is MY DOG.  When I need her, she is there.  When I handle her she responds well to every command.  (She is trained to me in a different language).  When neighborhood kids or our friends are over, she instinctively knows who is who, who belongs and who does not.  She is a bit confused by all the squirrels, but they know the fence and tease her mercilessly.  Most of all however, I love her, and she helps me everyday.

When our last Golden, Viper, passed late in 2015, I just could not get another Golden.  I love them, and they still are my passion, but I would have just cried all the time.  Often when we would show Goldens I would see German Shepherds.  They, and their handlers, left a lasting impression upon me.  I did not want a show dog, as the German Shepherd for show is a little different than the type you would train like a police dog.  I also wanted to have her keep me active.  I have gotten a whole lot more than I bargained for.

German Shepherds are used as police dogs and for protection, because they think.  One book I read, written by the head trainer of military dogs in WWII, said with training these dogs can make correct decisions, even in the absence of a command.  After all, a military dog’s handler may not be able to talk due to safety or injury. I love this about her, but it sometimes is hard having a dog that is smarter than you.  I still do not want to trade.

And why?  Because Abbey is MY DOG.  She has everyone thinking she is theirs too, but I know different.  She is MY DOG, ever on the prowl for squirrels and the sworn enemy of the yellow sprinkler.

I love her, and I am blessed to have her in my life.

Tommy+