I read the words of other women suffering deeply yet living joyfully, fully alive and trusting His grace, and I shake my head in defeat.
How do they trust Him so deeply yet suffer so profoundly?
I long, deeply yearn for my whole being to say with complete integrity, “Though He slay me, yet I trust Him.”
But I don’t.
I fear Him. No, not the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom fear.
Fear Him – what He’ll do to me, how He’ll make me suffer. What will I lose? Who will I lose?
I lost my dog recently; I grieve and miss him, and yet I can handle that. I expected his death. But my husband, my girls, one of my faculties (mental ability, hearing, vision), my health. These I don’t know that I can handle to lose.
I’m terrified that He’ll bring my worst fears upon me.
As I write, I see the word over and over again….my, my, my.
Somehow these gifts He’s given me have become mine, my possessions. No longer gifts, but rights.
The right to live a long healthy life with my husband and girls. The right to be healthy and whole throughout that life.
Oh, these aren't rights are they? If ever I had any rights (Does the created one, although made in the very image of God and bestowed with great dignity, have "rights" before the Creator?), they were laid down when I accepted that Jesus bought me with His blood. What right do I have to complain to my Maker?
Yet, I do.
I am so afraid of what might be that I miss what is.
He is here. He is now. He has promised to never leave me alone.
How did I get so afraid?
Loss and trauma are open doors for fear to fly through and suffocate life.
The more I see, the more I can’t understand, the more I need to trust. Yet this old will of mine is strong and doesn’t bend without a fight.
So, I fight. I beat His chest with the raw pounding of a wounded heart, shattered and torn, wanting answers, finding none.
Will His presence be enough? Will His loving arms hold me tight as I spit in His face?
I’ve been here before but not like this. There are new vistas, sharper switchbacks and steeper trails.
I read the words of these other women, and I hope that they are right.
He is trustworthy. He is enough.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Monday, September 5, 2011
If you have ever loved a pet...this one is for my beloved dog, Wiley. Run free Wiley! RUN FREE!!!
It was just over a month ago that I wrote a post for my sister and her fox dog, Sophie.
Today the fog of grief still hasn’t cleared from my eyes. It’s a beautiful “fallish” day and my vision is blurred by the tears that keep falling because my beloved dog Wiley is gone.
He was sick; we didn’t know how sick. He’d have a bad day and then have a few good days; after a couple of days of fluids and antibiotics at the vet, I thought he was getting better.
I just told him on Saturday to hang on for just a few more weeks and he’d be so happy to have 25 acres to run free on – no fence, no leash, and a cow to chase.
The freedom to run with no bounds. That’s what he always wanted.
He didn’t make it.
I gave him his medicine before church. I rubbed his head and under his chin. I didn’t think that might be the last time I’d see him.
We came home from church and hurriedly made lunch and got our things together for an afternoon birthday party at the beach. I didn’t check on him.
On the way to the beach I read aloud from One Thousand Gifts. She said that in this life we will lose everyone we love. When will the next loss be? Who will it be? I had no idea what I would find when we returned home.
It was late when we pulled. Rusty’s barking greeted us. We stumbled into the house, got the littlest one to bed and started to grab a bite to eat for the rest of us.
I went outside to feed the dogs. I called and Rusty came. I called for Wiley. I called for Wiley again. I thought of a few nights before when I found him under the slide, lying there, not moving, but still with the breath of life in his lungs and the sparkle of Wiley in his eyes.
I opened the porch door and there he was in one of his favorite places in the sand. As soon as I saw him I knew. I called for Stephan to come, groaning that Wiley was dead.
The next couple of hours – and this day – have been a blur.
We put his stiff body on a blanket and carried him onto the porch. I bent over him, weeping for my very loveable, very ornery pet. I stroked him, studied him again, remembering his form, memorizing his shape.
Ants started to crawl on him; death bugs began their ascent. I fought them off.
Finally it was time. We covered him with the blanket and put him in two black trash bags. My beloved dog in a trash bag. As if he was trash.
Death is a perversion. Death is a thief. Death respects nothing and no one.
He would’ve been 11 in just 13 days.
My heart aches because there is an empty space that was his. When he came into my life, a place in my heart opened up and Wiley filled his space. Now it will remain empty. At once a reminder of the open mouth cave of death and of the fullness for which we’re made.
I kept looking at him, waiting for him to breathe and get up again, for the light to shine through his eyes. But the breath of life was gone from his lungs and the sparkle that was Wiley shut out.
I want to turn back the clock just one day so I can say goodbye, so I can look into his eyes and tell him that I love him. Oh, my soft, black, dog with big brown eyes, and the softest ears, you have grown up with me. I wanted more years together. I always wanted to get you back to North Carolina – that cool mountain air that we both love. It’s not to be.
Rusty went out to look for you this morning. You were still in that dreadful death bag. Well, your body was there.
Although it is mystery, my belief in the gracious heart of God who made Wiley and gave him to us for these last 11 years, is that we will meet again. When I get Home, he will be there with the Saints, his toosh turned to the side and his nub wagging, welcoming me, ready to show me around.
Until I touch your soft fur again and can breathe on you, hear your chewbaka voice, play the harmonica so you can sing, enjoy your love of a grass swim, and run free with you, Go Wiley Go! Go Further up and Further in!
I miss you beloved companion of four feet and black fur.
Wiley (AKA – Wileybubs, Bubba, Nubbers, Wileybubs with the nubs)
9/17/00 – 9/4/11
Today the fog of grief still hasn’t cleared from my eyes. It’s a beautiful “fallish” day and my vision is blurred by the tears that keep falling because my beloved dog Wiley is gone.
He was sick; we didn’t know how sick. He’d have a bad day and then have a few good days; after a couple of days of fluids and antibiotics at the vet, I thought he was getting better.
I just told him on Saturday to hang on for just a few more weeks and he’d be so happy to have 25 acres to run free on – no fence, no leash, and a cow to chase.
The freedom to run with no bounds. That’s what he always wanted.
He didn’t make it.
I gave him his medicine before church. I rubbed his head and under his chin. I didn’t think that might be the last time I’d see him.
We came home from church and hurriedly made lunch and got our things together for an afternoon birthday party at the beach. I didn’t check on him.
On the way to the beach I read aloud from One Thousand Gifts. She said that in this life we will lose everyone we love. When will the next loss be? Who will it be? I had no idea what I would find when we returned home.
It was late when we pulled. Rusty’s barking greeted us. We stumbled into the house, got the littlest one to bed and started to grab a bite to eat for the rest of us.
I went outside to feed the dogs. I called and Rusty came. I called for Wiley. I called for Wiley again. I thought of a few nights before when I found him under the slide, lying there, not moving, but still with the breath of life in his lungs and the sparkle of Wiley in his eyes.
I opened the porch door and there he was in one of his favorite places in the sand. As soon as I saw him I knew. I called for Stephan to come, groaning that Wiley was dead.
The next couple of hours – and this day – have been a blur.
We put his stiff body on a blanket and carried him onto the porch. I bent over him, weeping for my very loveable, very ornery pet. I stroked him, studied him again, remembering his form, memorizing his shape.
Ants started to crawl on him; death bugs began their ascent. I fought them off.
Finally it was time. We covered him with the blanket and put him in two black trash bags. My beloved dog in a trash bag. As if he was trash.
Death is a perversion. Death is a thief. Death respects nothing and no one.
He would’ve been 11 in just 13 days.
My heart aches because there is an empty space that was his. When he came into my life, a place in my heart opened up and Wiley filled his space. Now it will remain empty. At once a reminder of the open mouth cave of death and of the fullness for which we’re made.
I kept looking at him, waiting for him to breathe and get up again, for the light to shine through his eyes. But the breath of life was gone from his lungs and the sparkle that was Wiley shut out.
I want to turn back the clock just one day so I can say goodbye, so I can look into his eyes and tell him that I love him. Oh, my soft, black, dog with big brown eyes, and the softest ears, you have grown up with me. I wanted more years together. I always wanted to get you back to North Carolina – that cool mountain air that we both love. It’s not to be.
Rusty went out to look for you this morning. You were still in that dreadful death bag. Well, your body was there.
Although it is mystery, my belief in the gracious heart of God who made Wiley and gave him to us for these last 11 years, is that we will meet again. When I get Home, he will be there with the Saints, his toosh turned to the side and his nub wagging, welcoming me, ready to show me around.
Until I touch your soft fur again and can breathe on you, hear your chewbaka voice, play the harmonica so you can sing, enjoy your love of a grass swim, and run free with you, Go Wiley Go! Go Further up and Further in!
I miss you beloved companion of four feet and black fur.
Wiley (AKA – Wileybubs, Bubba, Nubbers, Wileybubs with the nubs)
9/17/00 – 9/4/11
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