our sweet boy

"To his dog, every man is Napoleon. Hence the constant popularity of dogs." -A. Huxley

My family dog died this past weekend. A part of us knew this was imminent. Yet admitting this seemed to break our hearts extra wide open. Why does it ache so much? Why can't I stop from crying at random times throughout a day? Why does it feel emptier than normal at the house

 

It's love separated by death. That's why. This is not how it's supposed to be.

We adopted him as a rescue more than 10 years ago.

I'm confident that other life experiences will hurt us as much as the death of a family pet. But I'm also confident that it's uniquely, distinctly desolating to say goodbye to a pet.

My mom often says that there's few things on this earth more symbolic of God's love for his people than how dogs particularly love their owners (I can't speak about cats as pets, or reptiles, or any other animal, so I won't speculate -- I'm sure they also provide love and affection in palpable ways).

How did this dog demonstrate such love for me, and my family, that it'd remind me of God's love?

-He always wanted to be near us. It didn't matter how long it'd been since we last showered, or if we'd brushed our teeth yet that morning. Wherever we were, that's where he wanted to be. God is like that too. We're never somewhere that he's not willing to come to where we are to be with us.

-Our dog's love and affection for us is unconditional, as is God's love. It's rare in life to know a love that unconditional that we can trust is unconditional. No second-guessing. No games.

-He saw the best in me, and in us. We didn't need to earn his love, or attain any status, to earn his love. It was there, and it stayed.

-The playfulness. We too often undersell the playfulness of God. 

A friends once told me of a time, in high school, when she contemplated some serious self-harm. One night, she got stuck in a devolving, self-loathing mental/emotional spiral. She began considering how she could hurt herself, and when to do it.

 

Who intervened?

 

The family dog -- bounding into her bedroom with the grace of a dump truck to lick her face, bother her for pets, climb into her lap. The dog broke through the spell of shame. She broke free of the spiral.

Dogs know when we ache. They may not be able to pay off a credit card, or recite math equations, or change a tire, but they are keen students of their pack.

A question I plan to ask God someday: why is the span of a pet's life is so truncated compared to our lives? It cleaves me in two to have to let go of this companion. Why do they have to age so fast? I'd gladly take the pain of this with the love we knew for all these years. But wow, the pain screams.

 

Also: do I believe all dogs go to heaven? 

 

I'll put it this way: I believe in the resurrection of the dead, and of God "making all things new" (Revelation 21), and that would not just be humans, but all creation. The bonds we form with these creatures are a gift from God. It's unfathomable that God would withdraw this gift forever. I look forward to playing with this special dog, my sweet boy again. I love him so.

 

reflections on Heather's passing

As a kid, I presumed that people I went to school with, we'd all grow old to some agreed-upon ancient age -- an uninterrupted timeline.

Heather and I performed together in many plays through junior high and high school. That's how we met, and became friends. She handled a variety of roles: farcical invisible person in one play -- coming-of-age newlywed named Emily in 'Our Town' -- prophetess in another short story. 

Heather oozed an easy clarity and simplicity on the stage. Offstage, she was friendly, cheerful, buoyant. A warm, welcoming presence in the high school hallways. She volunteered as a manager for the varsity football team. She spoke at graduation.

As they always seem to say, her future shone brightly. I lost track of her after graduating.

Two years later: I was at college. My high school friend Anne lived in the same res hall I did. She called one Tuesday evening. She asked if I'd heard any news from home. I said I had not. She told me to come up to her room right away.

When I got there, I saw Anne's facial expression as flat -- though she knew she had to share something horrible -- and forced.

Heather. Our friend Heather was dead.

Dead from a highway car accident while driving home from college. A truck driver had fallen asleep, crossed the median, and hit her car.

Anne's voice sounded to me like she was talking while underwater -- this extra ambient noise flooded my ears while my eyes welled with tears. The news made me feel sad, tired, cranky, like I didn't want to eat -- and incredulous with disbelief. "What? How??!? Who -- OUR Heather? Are you sure?!? WHAT??!?" We sat there, crying, running out of what to say without repeating ourselves. 

Heather was the first person I knew who'd died this young.

Of course, we share connection to the people  from our high schools, our elementary schools, our middle schools. That common bond means something different for everyone, but it means something.

It's an awkward sort of grace to muck through the shared struggle of growing up. It helps to do so around others. We grow accustomed to the faces that comprise this backdrop, these months and years spent hustling to and from our lockers, forever speed-walking to get to our next class, or to lunch, or to practice, before the bell rang.

A part of me  hoped the world should at least slow down a bit -- as a small gesture of respect -- to honor this awesome person now gone from our sight. The world did no such thing.

My school assignments never stopped. Deadlines still loomed. Laundry kept piling up. We all still moved through the days of life too fast, not cherishing enough all the blessings before us.

Friends of mine said awkward stuff, trying to console me. I'm sure many of you have experienced this. At the time, I remember feeling supremely frustrated with their fumbling ineptitude. In retrospect, I not near as frustrated. They were trying.

Young, familiar faces filled the funeral service, which was at our high school. I wanted to be there, and also wanted to be anywhere else.

These years later, it still feels unfair.

It feels unfair that Heather's smile doesn't get to gradually collect the creases of age and life that we see in each other's faces at reunions. Sure, it still pains to be reminded of her absence, but it hurts differently than before. I also smile at recalling those slapdash plays we performed in so long ago. Good times, and some cool memories. Some pain remains, but the memories bring some grace too.

My pastor often says that to be sad is an act of sanity. It's proportional to feel sad about sad things. This makes sense to me, and relieves me. I haven't found a way to get over the sadness of losing Heather. And yet, we've had to unhurriedly learn to live with it.

To this day, a memorial marker for her stands at the entrance to my high school's football field. 

Heather's unfairly forever 19 years old.