Planting Daisies: When Roses Just Won’t Do!!

Planting Daisies

When Roses Just Won’t Do . . .

Robin K. Johnson

Foreword by Ron Clark

Planting Daisies

When Roses Just Won’t Do . . .

Copyright © 2014 Robin K. Johnson. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.

Resource Publications

An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers

199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3

Eugene, OR 97401

www.wipfandstock.com

isbn 13: 978-1-62564-894-5

eisbn 13: 978-1-63087-534-3

Manufactured in the U.S.A.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Foreword

Chapter 1: Fledglings

Chapter 2: Planting Daisies!

Chapter 3: Dominoes . . .

Chapter 4: Dominoes . . . Peaches and Apples

Chapter 5: Baby Daddy’s Blues

Chapter 6: A Spoon and a Flashlight

Chapter 7: The Rider

Chapter 8: Considered Me?

Chapter 9: Paper versus Plastic

Chapter 10: Cryptic Events

Chapter 11: Becoming Dad

Chapter 12: Love of the Game

Chapter 13: Penelope’s Peril

To Callie

Foreword

Life is as diverse as the flowers in a field, especially those in which daisies are planted. Daisies overtake a field and provide a sense of beauty. Each flower is unique, but when one surveys the field, each seems just like every other flower. Looking over a meadow of these daisies provides spectacular views of God’s blessing upon all creation. But when we look closer, we see the individual glory of each blossom.

Daisies are common flowers. Some would say that they are not as impressive as roses, orchids, or magnolias. Others simply believe that their value is in their distinct, yet similar appearance. They are all special, but only to someone who takes the time to look closely.

In my years in ministry I have learned to handle emotional mood swings between joy and sadness, grief and humor, as well as cynicism and hope. Like daisies, human lives are unique, though they may sometimes seem all alike. Each person’s stories affect those who listen and care. My decades of ministry have given me the opportunity to listen to many people’s stories, hopes, and dreams. Whether my wife and I are hearing confessions from behind the bars of a prison or listening to the deep trauma of survivors of abuse, the excuses of someone in the throes of addiction, the suffering of a cancer patient and their spouse, or the stories of children, we have learned that people are a field of daisies. Some see such people and their simple stories as commonplace, but those of us who look closely, listen intently, and offer acceptance know that they are all unique.

Planting Daisies is an encounter with those whom we have neglected to take the time to meet in our day-to-day lives. These are stories I have personally heard in other fields, from daisies that few have had the opportunity to appreciate. These are real people with real struggles, humor, and dreams. They are the common men, women, and children in our neighborhoods, schools, and churches who we have been forgotten or ignored. Their stories are each unique, yet altogether similar. They are tragic, yet hopeful.

Robin K. Johnson takes us on a journey into the homes, porches, cells, courtrooms, and offices where these daisies grow. Those who watch from a distance believe they are all the same. To such people, they are just another story on the news, in the paper, or in the church bulletin. Those who will take the time to read on will be moved by the compassion, anger, love, and fear that these daisies experience. With raw language, emotion, and faith, Johnson will lead you to examine each blossom closely to realize they are each unique in their struggle for survival as well as their hope for something better. Planting Daisies will draw us to compassion, empathy, and love for others while maintaining the dignity of each individual flower.

I look forward to reading this book again and again.

Dr. Ron Clark

Agape Church of Christ

Portland, OR

1

Fledglings

I thought that I was dreaming. We had a good night together. Our girls were across the street at a sleepover. We ate dinner and took in a movie and walked around the block just to talk about our fifteen years together. The time had gone so fast that the little things in life that had made us angry then now seemed to be just small occurrences in all of the ups and downs we had been through. She shook me awake, making me think she wanted to go for it again.

Did you hear that? Callie whispered to me. I think somebody is in the house.

I jumped out of bed and made my way to the den. I was still struggling to get the sleep out of my eyes. I slid my feet into my tennis shoes and headed for the door. My wife was on her knees trying to open the bottom drawer of her nightstand without making too much noise.

Wait for me, I’ve got to get my little friend.

Hush, I got this, I whispered in my manliest tone even though I was scared as hell. My heart was in my stomach, but I was furious that someone was in my house, taking my stuff and maybe planning to hurt my family.

Boy, you better think about who you are talking to. My wife and her military weapons training. Always bringing that up.

I guess you want to wear the big drawers too?

I left the room and found myself tiptoeing through the house trying to scan the darkness. The little night-lights we have in the hallways didn’t give off enough light to be any help. I was armed with the little oak bat that I made back in high school shop class. I had improved the strength of the bat by adding a twelve-inch bolt down the center after boring a hole into its two-foot core. I knew it would come in handy—I just thought that it would have been in my old high school’s parking lot.

I got to the den, where someone screamed at me to get out of his way. I hit him two or three times, not stopping to wonder whether he might have partners in our house.

Pop! Pop!

I felt the warmth of blood running down my front. The pain crept into my mind as I tried to swing again.

You bastards have broken into the wrong damn house! My wife is very outspoken.

Pop! Pop! Pop! Her .380 was doing most of the talking for her.

I heard screams and breaking glass as I hit the coffee table and then the floor. I saw my wife firing her gun several more times before I realized that I had been hurt so badly that I was becoming too dizzy to see.

Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

Oh yeah, I hit one of those bastards. I know I did. She dropped the clip and put a new one in the gun. Baby, are you okay? Did I hit you by mistake?

No . . . Though my lips still struggled to form the words, I couldn’t get anything else out.

Stay still, I’m gonna call 911. Things went black for a minute, but I could still hear her voice. It sounded muffled. Yes, I do have a gun. I hit one of them. It was three of them in a brown car and another car pulled out right after them. Then all sound faded away . . .

�

I was baffled by the way everyone was moving around. It seemed so slow and methodical. The police seemed to be asking my wife the same questions. The answers she was giving didn’t seem to satisfy the curiosity of why someone would break into our home. I felt hands on me and something on my face was stopping me from breathing easily. They kept grabbing my arms and telling me to lie still. All I could think was that I had to get to my feet and help my wife explain this mess.

Ma’am, the permit for your gun is too tattered to read all of the pertinent information. You will need to have this replaced. When did you say you purchased the gun?

"Like I’ve been saying for the past fifteen minutes, she drawled, rolling her eyes, I’ve had that .380 since college."

What college was that?

"The college of I ain’t gonna be vulnerable again." She had hit her limit. I wanted to laugh, but nothing came out. The paramedics did laugh as they picked up my body and laid me on the gurney, where I could just make out the neighbors coming out in their pajamas to investigate the flashing lights and sirens.

Ma’am, this is a serious matter. We need to get all the information from you that we can to solve this situation.

You don’t think I know that this is serious? I shot someone. Someone shot my husband. I saw her eyes follow the medics as they rolled me out the door and onto the driveway. Cailyn, ride in that ambulance with your dad.

Callie turned back to the officer. Or are you just daft? Ignoring the officer’s answer, she turned to our daughter, saying, Pray, okay?

Cailyn moved as quickly as she was told.

I was already doing that, our daughter answered as she locked worried eyes with her mother over my gurney.

As they rolled me to the ambulance, I saw my neighbor’s car screeching to a halt. The smell of burned tires wafted across the yard. I knew that Two was home, and she was mad. Two is my fifteen-year-old daughter, Rebekah. She doesn’t put up with too much mess from anybody.

We got them buttheads! she shouted as she exited the driver’s side of the car. We got them buttheads!

Ma’am, stop right there. The short, fat officer approached her. Who did you get?

Two handed him a piece of paper and looked over to the ambulance. Cailyn gave her sister the okay sign and climbed in after they wheeled me in.

We got the fools that broke into my parents’ house. Two was very loud, much louder than usual when she’s upset about something. Here’s the number off the truck they were in. Me, my sister, Mikkel, and the other girls in the car were across the street at a sleepover. We were up late talking and laughing out by the Moons’ pool when Dee Dee saw that truck stop at the end of our driveway. We watched as they looked around and ran straight for the patio doors. I was hoping they wouldn’t be able to get in, but things happened so fast! She looked over to my wife and gave a little smile. All we heard was my mom cursing and shooting. We saw the guys run out and get into the truck. One of them was holding his face and it sounded like he was crying. Then they got into the truck and took off fast.

So how did you get them? The policeman handed the paper off to a younger officer, who got on the radio as he walked away.

We got in the station wagon and chased them. She shrugged her shoulders as if it were a normal thing to do. How do you think you guys got the call to come out here? Amber dialed as we pulled off after them fools and Mikkel and Dee Dee loaded up the flare guns.

Flare guns? He looked as puzzled as I felt. He wrote on his little pad and looked at her as if she were the one in trouble. You said flare guns?

Yeah, we needed some type of weapon. So we took them out of the Moons’ boat as we ran to the car. She looked at her mother. The women at Daisy told us to always be looking for a weapon to protect ourselves. She looked back at her friends and continued. "We were protecting our interests, right?

Where are the flare guns? Two ignored the question. He scribbled something else on his little pad.

We followed them as close as we could—

They were booking it too, Dee Dee chimed in, interrupting Two. I would say they hit ninety miles an hour when they turned on MLK. But our old station wagon kept up.

She sure did! Two continued, I was already mad. So when they stopped, I rolled up, took the flare from Dee Dee and took the first shot into the windows.

Yeah, we got off a couple of shots! Dee Dee and Mikkel sang out in unison.

A couple of shots? The officer looked up at his partner and then back at the girls gathered in front of him. Flares only load one shot at a time. How did you get off a couple of shots?

It was two of us loading. Mikkel looked at the girls and then motioned at the Moons coming over from across the street. "Yeah, I shot off three rounds, and Dee Dee . . . I think