It's been a week-- a week since we said a gut-wrenching goodbye to our dear little Maggie. The uncertainty of our upcoming transition to uprootedness, her anxiety, increasing feebleness, and especially her struggle to breathe because of a collapsing trachea demanded a humane response. We could not add to her suffering. Our vet assured us that it was the last gift we could give her, a peaceful death surrounded by those who loved her. It was awful and it was beautiful.
The memory of accompanying her to the end is seared in our minds. I can still feel her body grow heavy in my arms as she experienced the effects of the first injection to relax her. I can feel the tickle of the tears coursing down my nose, tears Carl had to wipe because my arms held our girl. I hear the sobs of Jenny Kate and my own voice as I chokingly speak love and assurance to that precious dog soul. I see her loss of control of her tongue and the slight twitching of her head until her body grew quiet, and I placed her gently on the table. I see the grief on Carl's face.
A collapsing vein extended the second step in the process, which was agonizing, but a dominant memory is the voice of Dr. Croy speaking comforting words as she pushed the syringe and the lethal liquid did its job, "You'll be chasing squirrels, "she whispered, "and we'll follow you, but not for awhile." And then she was gone, her body still. The stethoscope confirmed what we knew.
Her suffering was over, but not ours. We continue to look for her, to miss the familiar interactions of fourteen years, to remember her licking our faces, the frolicking and dancing of her youth, her howling at the piano, the uncontrolled excitement when meeting another dog, her obsession with people food, the comfort and undying love she gave us from the very beginning even to the end when she had little energy or tolerance for daily activity.
It's been a week, and I just saw something I wrote weeks ago but never published. Closed doors and empty bowls--
She doesn't like closed doors or an empty bowl.
Maggie has become a little odd in her old age. She seems intent on making sure she has food to eat, ravenously devouring any people food she can manage to acquire and insisting that her bowl has dog food in it even if she doesn't want to eat it. We're all getting soft in our indulgence of her cravings.
Another idiosyncrasy she has developed is an anxiety about closed doors. She wants to ensure that she has access to all the "safe places" in the house. She has conditioned us to leave every door open, at least the ones that she knows go somewhere, because of her incessant scratching if she finds one closed. She even scratches on the exterior door in the kitchen --sometimes to alert us to her empty bowl that sits beside it and sometimes to assure herself that she could get out if she needed to.
How much am I like this at some level? I am really seeking the comfort of open doors and full bowls. I'm finding it a daily battle to fight the anxiety that accompanies a situation that seems to have no solution, no relief. It is a difficult thing to look at closed doors and think that there is no safe place or no way out. I desperately want to "scratch" at the doors and find it a thing of discipline to sit in patient trust. And even though I am blessed with all manner of daily bread, I still long for empty bowls to be filled.
Today I saw the connection between me and Maggie. Maggie always had a joyful spirit, a bounce in her step--laughing through the days with eagerness to please. In her youth, she would bound to our side, finding joy in every moment, filled with love, excited about life, confident in being loved. She thought that everyone loved her and was an exuberant, faithful, white ball of fluff that leapt into our hearts, therapy for battle-worn souls so many years ago. However, she struggles now, fighting anxiety that sometimes overwhelms her, sleeping most of the time, and waking us up too early in the morning, but she is still giving to me in this sacramental picture. She reminds me that though she may not realize it, her anxiety is not rooted in reality. In reality, she is loved, protected, and provided for. She has all that she needs. Even the thunder can not harm her, regardless of how loud it cracks. There is no reason to seek the shelter behind a closed door. Her food source is abundant, new every morning.
And so it is with me, regardless of how scary or uncomfortable it feels.
Wednesday, November 21, 2018
The little container
Moving again. Another painful purging of possessions and loss of structure and direction--but that's for another post.
I was cleaning out the long closet in Carl's office dubbed, "The Gallery," because of all the wall hangings opposite the wall of bookshelves. A few storage containers had found their home for the past four years on the floor of this room. Who knows why they landed here instead of the high shelf in the garage. Most of these containers were large, but one small plastic container kept the large ones company. I had dragged this little container around the East Coast for more than three decades, carrying Stephanie's clothes everywhere I sojourned. What would I do now? I was in a "throw away" mood. In previous moves I had not questioned this box, hadn't opened it since I had laid those clothes to rest 35 years ago. However, the circumstances of this move demanded practicality, and I was on the lookout for anything I could release. So I opened the box...I held one little outfit in my hand and emotion rushed like a torrent. How could the feelings still be so strong? Maybe it was the trough of loss we had been in for two months, but I could almost feel that tiny body in my hands. Too much.
I replaced that little outfit in the little container and closed the lid. I taped it and labeled it, Stephanie's clothes. I don't know when I will give up that little plastic container, but it won't be this move.
Sunday, March 18, 2018
Jealous God
"May they rot in hell," I spat onto the cold tile of a hospital corridor as the social worker guided me to the exit. I had just turned from the slam of a heavy door as it shut out the terrified screams of a desperate four-year old. My foster son, a child who had in the past year clung to me, not with love, but with an animal instinct seeking survival, had degenerated into ungovernable behavior resulting in the need for intervention. His terror at being left alone in this strange, institutional place pulled from me a rage borne of love, a fierce primal force determined to protect, and resulted in words, the likes of which I had never uttered before, words that have caused me guilt in the intervening years. I wanted to hunt down and destroy the people responsible for so profoundly wounding this innocent child who, as the years progressed, I realized would never fully recover. How could I as a follower of the loving Christ even think this thought, let alone, say it aloud? Didn't Jesus command me to love my enemies?
This memory resurfaced as I listened to a sermon by Fr. Justin Howard (http://www.idachurch.com/sermons/2018/1/31/128-revealing-the-god-who-pursues) on our God being a jealous God, a God who would jealousy defend me, relentlessly pursue me, and violently rescue me. Thinking of the ferocity that I felt those many years ago for a child that was not yet my legal child, let alone a child of my own flesh, I begin to understand the desire and pursuit of God for me. Where else could these "Mama Bear" passions come from if not from the God who placed His image in me? If I could love so deeply and fight so passionately for my children, must not God be outrageously committed to me? Is the passion of God not seen even in the Christ who would unleash havoc in the Temple court of the Gentiles in response to religious leaders fouling the only part of the Temple that the nations could access? What else but his passionate, jealous love could bring him to the most violent act of history, the cross? So is there violent passion in the love of God? I think in some way, the answer has to be yes, not a violence that is retaliatory, vengeful, or political, but a "violent" passion that will do anything to love. This, too, is a mystery.
How I need to burrow into this, to let it seep deep inside me. If I indeed truly believe this, what fears could possibly overwhelm me? How could I not have utter confidence that all will be well, that my end is secure, that my life is deemed precious, even a treasure to the Divine One? Thanks be to God.
This memory resurfaced as I listened to a sermon by Fr. Justin Howard (http://www.idachurch.com/sermons/2018/1/31/128-revealing-the-god-who-pursues) on our God being a jealous God, a God who would jealousy defend me, relentlessly pursue me, and violently rescue me. Thinking of the ferocity that I felt those many years ago for a child that was not yet my legal child, let alone a child of my own flesh, I begin to understand the desire and pursuit of God for me. Where else could these "Mama Bear" passions come from if not from the God who placed His image in me? If I could love so deeply and fight so passionately for my children, must not God be outrageously committed to me? Is the passion of God not seen even in the Christ who would unleash havoc in the Temple court of the Gentiles in response to religious leaders fouling the only part of the Temple that the nations could access? What else but his passionate, jealous love could bring him to the most violent act of history, the cross? So is there violent passion in the love of God? I think in some way, the answer has to be yes, not a violence that is retaliatory, vengeful, or political, but a "violent" passion that will do anything to love. This, too, is a mystery.
How I need to burrow into this, to let it seep deep inside me. If I indeed truly believe this, what fears could possibly overwhelm me? How could I not have utter confidence that all will be well, that my end is secure, that my life is deemed precious, even a treasure to the Divine One? Thanks be to God.
Sunday morning lesson
I believe I had a word from the Lord this morning in church--a word set against the backdrop of two things: (1. ) Karen's admonition to go through our present discernment process with gratitude and open-mindedness; (2.) thinking about Jordan and my temptation to devalue his life because of his intense need and lack of productivity and reading yesterday about a book dealing with the value of spending time with the disabled (Becoming Friends of Time: Disability, Time-fullness, and Gentle Discipleship). This addresses deep-seated notions of intrinsic value and productivity that are too fully formed in me by society and culture and are antithetical to kingdom of God thinking.
While waiting for the church service to begin, I chatted with Nancy, an energetic retiree who is heavily involved in ministry at COTC. Our conversation primed the pump of my heart and mind to hear the Divine One point out an area of ingratitude in my life. As I am wont to do, I thought with disappointment about the lack of an intergenerational congregation at the historic campus, voiced this thought to Nancy, and asked her if volunteers from the historic campus ever interacted with those from the Cross Church campus (wondering if these two campuses ever acted as one). She replied that folks at CC didn't have the time to be involved in ministry like the older people do (with jobs, family concerns, etc.), so often did not cross paths with the historic campus volunteers in ministry endeavors, but the CC folks were recipients of the ministry of the older generation through avenues such as the Stephen Ministry. That seed worked its way into the soil of my heart as I sat through the service surrounded by septuagenarians and octogenarians. I realized that I held almost prejudicial thoughts deep down in the core of my soul for the elderly. Maybe I haven't met enough elderly people whose minds were still active and growing and who showed real concern for living out a vibrant faith. I also fail to remember that the end of this life isn't the end of learning and growing. The end of life stage is not a time of diminished value. Thus, when I wonder about the significance of Carl teaching church history to this bunch, I must remember that these saints, though they may not have many years and opportunities ahead to share what they are learning (that's "productivity"), are on a pilgrimage that will continue into eternity. Their desire to learn is evidence of their vitality of mind and full engagement with life. This is instructive to my soul.
I think, also, that being surrounded by the elderly is a poignant reminder of my own aging process, a process that I want to defy and forget. Today, as I looked at those heads, I confessed my dismissal of these people and thanked God for their presence and teaching in my life. This may not be my "ideal" church, brimming with young families, but it is the will of God for me in this moment. And it is a holy and precious place, filled with folks whose years have overflowed with joy and fruitfulness, as well as sorrow, bondage, and loss. They may use canes and battle illness and bereavement, but they have much to teach me. These people have not lost their value, even their usefulness, in God's economy. They remind me of the way of all flesh and the beauty and grace that is present in all stages of life. I confess the dread and fear that the aging process often elicits in me, and I claim the power and grace of God to continue growing into God and offering his love to those around me, whatever that may look like. I choose to have gratitude for these gifts and the solemn, yet joyful, lessons they give.
This may seem like a small thing, but I believe that God put a finger on a place in me that needs adjustment. I want to see the COTC and its elderly band of brothers and sisters through a different lens. No more should I lament the spiritual family that God has provided for this time in my life. I don't want to miss the truth and love that they have to give me. Thanks be to God.
While waiting for the church service to begin, I chatted with Nancy, an energetic retiree who is heavily involved in ministry at COTC. Our conversation primed the pump of my heart and mind to hear the Divine One point out an area of ingratitude in my life. As I am wont to do, I thought with disappointment about the lack of an intergenerational congregation at the historic campus, voiced this thought to Nancy, and asked her if volunteers from the historic campus ever interacted with those from the Cross Church campus (wondering if these two campuses ever acted as one). She replied that folks at CC didn't have the time to be involved in ministry like the older people do (with jobs, family concerns, etc.), so often did not cross paths with the historic campus volunteers in ministry endeavors, but the CC folks were recipients of the ministry of the older generation through avenues such as the Stephen Ministry. That seed worked its way into the soil of my heart as I sat through the service surrounded by septuagenarians and octogenarians. I realized that I held almost prejudicial thoughts deep down in the core of my soul for the elderly. Maybe I haven't met enough elderly people whose minds were still active and growing and who showed real concern for living out a vibrant faith. I also fail to remember that the end of this life isn't the end of learning and growing. The end of life stage is not a time of diminished value. Thus, when I wonder about the significance of Carl teaching church history to this bunch, I must remember that these saints, though they may not have many years and opportunities ahead to share what they are learning (that's "productivity"), are on a pilgrimage that will continue into eternity. Their desire to learn is evidence of their vitality of mind and full engagement with life. This is instructive to my soul.
I think, also, that being surrounded by the elderly is a poignant reminder of my own aging process, a process that I want to defy and forget. Today, as I looked at those heads, I confessed my dismissal of these people and thanked God for their presence and teaching in my life. This may not be my "ideal" church, brimming with young families, but it is the will of God for me in this moment. And it is a holy and precious place, filled with folks whose years have overflowed with joy and fruitfulness, as well as sorrow, bondage, and loss. They may use canes and battle illness and bereavement, but they have much to teach me. These people have not lost their value, even their usefulness, in God's economy. They remind me of the way of all flesh and the beauty and grace that is present in all stages of life. I confess the dread and fear that the aging process often elicits in me, and I claim the power and grace of God to continue growing into God and offering his love to those around me, whatever that may look like. I choose to have gratitude for these gifts and the solemn, yet joyful, lessons they give.
This may seem like a small thing, but I believe that God put a finger on a place in me that needs adjustment. I want to see the COTC and its elderly band of brothers and sisters through a different lens. No more should I lament the spiritual family that God has provided for this time in my life. I don't want to miss the truth and love that they have to give me. Thanks be to God.
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