Tag: writing

Unfolding

This past week, we lost one of our family dogs, Charlie. And while, at almost 12 years of age, I knew it was coming sooner rather than later, I didn’t know it would come now. I have felt an acute sense of loss over the passing of this cuddly, goofy, whiny, stinky, demanding old friend. He was love, in every sense of the word–always there, always joyful, always full of hope. But as the tears have fallen, I’ve realized that I’m not just mourning a dog. I’m mourning the end of a season–the closing of one more book in the series of my life.

Our boys were just 6 and 8 when we brought Charlie home. Next month, they will be 18 and 20. The dogs and the boys grew up together, and now that both old dogs are gone, I feel that the last link to the boys’ childhood has been severed. There’s a finality that I can’t quite wrap my head around, an understanding that a new season is unfolding. But it’s hard to let the past go.

I found a picture the other day of my oldest crouched over the dining room table with a fanny pack buckled around his waist and a silk band tied around his head ninja warrioring his way through 5th grade math problems. Then there were the plethora of pictures of my youngest, his impish grin ever present, eyes twinkling at the camera as he’s just finished some mischief I have yet to discover. Sometimes I find myself wondering where those boys went. It’s the same when I look at pictures of myself as a girl–the confidence, the optimism, the sense that the future is a long ribbon unfolding before you full of amazing stories to be written.

Now I sit at the precipice of 50. My boys are grown. Their dogs are gone. The generation that raised us and trained us is getting older. We’ve lost parents and mentors, teachers and friends. And Charlie’s passing seems to encapsulate all of that–all of the letting go beyond simply saying goodbye to a furry companion and friend.

But God reminds me that there’s a time for everything–a season for every purpose under heaven.

A few weeks ago, I went outside on a glorious Saturday morning. I was feeling sad, but the Sun beckoned me out of the darkness of my feelings and so I went to sit and read and pray and think. I took Charlie with me, and after he sniffed around the bushes for a bit, he did what he always loved to do and spread himself out in the sun to bask in its yellow warmth. It occurred to me that the world was incredibly green, as recent spring rains had brought all of nature out to play. I wrote a poem about spring green, marveling at God’s handiwork all around, before settling into the hard work of soul tending. And as my old dog lay in the achingly green grass soaking up the sunshine, I thought about time and change and seasons of life and I wrote these words on the inside cover of my book:

4/25/26

10-something A.M.

It’s occurred to me that, as I am sitting on the porch staring at the grass and trees and dog, that I am in a season of unfolding. I have no idea of summer plans, schedules are in flux, decisions yet to be made. People are in different places–how will it all unfold? How will I unfold? And so, I wait. I watch. I still the questions. I accept the unfolding.

Come back later, I feel God saying. Look back next year. We’re still in progress.

Of course, we’ll always be in progress. But, as God has shown me time and again, there is much to learn and love in the unfolding.

So, let’s go. Let’s sit. Let’s wait. Let’s unfold, God, you and I. Here I am–work away!

Changing seasons are hard, but they’re beautiful, too. Have you ever seen a green so bright, full, and all-consuming as the green that explodes forth in early Spring? It’s like being in the midst of the Emerald City, and it completely captivates me. It’s a promise that, no matter how our lives change, God isn’t going to abandon us in the loss of yesterday. Rather, he’s already at work in the future, adding color and beauty and joy and love to whatever will unfold as we write our next story.

And so, I’m working on letting go–of dogs, of boys, of halcyon memories that were only one part of this tale called Life, and I’m easing my way into the next part, opening myself to new understandings and experiences and challenges, and adventures. I have no idea what it will look like, but I know that God will exceed all my expectations.

Blessings and Peace,

Sara

There Are No Duds in God’s Kingdom

“I think we got a dud.” This has been my standard line when people tell me how amazing it must be to have a Great Dane. When we researched this dog breed, we learned that they are “gentle giants”. Goofballs, yes, but kind and caring friends who like to snuggle and lay around with you on the couch. Last night, I was laying around on the couch and got smacked in the face with a huge stuffed hippo that our “gentle giant” was whipping around. And though our Roxie does like to cuddle, it’s often accompanied by teeth, because apparently nothing says love like an attempted nip on the nose.

I’ve spent way too many of my waking hours stressing over this dog. So, last month, in the midst of graduating our eldest, preparing for trips and camps, and…you know…working, I decided I was done. Roxie might be a hot mess, but she’s our hot mess, and that’s okay. She is who she is…and she’s not a dud, even if others might look askance as she saunters by wearing her muzzle and e-collar as we make our way down the trail.

It’s pretty easy to look at ourselves and others and think: “There’s a dud.” Maybe we make a regretful decision, lose a job, blowup a relationship, or miss an opportunity. Perhaps we disappoint a loved one with our words or our silence, with a careless action or thoughtless inaction. If any of you have read any of my work for any amount of time, you know that I am a “pleaser.” I hate disappointing people…and I hate that I hate it. Being a “pleaser” is emotionally exhausting, and no matter how much I try to turn that switch off, it persists in staying on. The result is that I often feel like a dud. I look around at people who are more confident, more successful, who have more friends and more Instagram posts of themselves doing fun things, who have spotless houses and high-achieving kids, and I think: “Eeek…I’m a nobody…who are you? Are you Nobody too?” See what I mean…I can randomly quote Emily Dickinson!! This is not “normal” behavior.

But then I remember these words from Psalm 139….

“Body and soul, I am marvelously made!” It’s a powerful reminder that when God looks at me, he doesn’t see a dud. He’s not disappointed or regretful; instead, he smiles at his marvelously made creation. And there is an absolute freedom in knowing this truth because it releases us from striving to be more than who we are. Ever since I’ve allowed Roxie to be, well, Roxie, I’ve had so much more peace. I understand who she is and I make things work for her so she can be the sassy, goofy, sweet soul she is. And I think that’s what God wants to do for us. He wants us to look in the mirror, see the marvelous work of his hands, and confidently engage in the world as that person, regardless of what anyone else might say.

The truth is, you’re not a dud. I’m not a dud. Your kids aren’t duds, even if they’re driving you crazy with their apathetic approach to homework. Could we all use a little help? Of course! We’re human. We’re going to make mistakes…probably daily…and some will be doozies. People will give up on us. We will be underestimated, or even seemingly invisible. We’ll fail, sometimes spectacularly, and we’ll get things wrong. Some days we’ll feel like we don’t deserve the good stuff in life, because we’re duds. But consider this:

In all of the ups and downs, through all of the emotional loop-de-loops we experience, John reminds us that at our core, we’re children of God, and the marvelous miracle of our being is bathed in his marvelous love, which makes us, quite simply, marvelous. So today, go be your marvelous authentic self, because God doesn’t make a dud.

Blessings and Peace,

Sara

Lessons From My Difficult Dog

About two years ago, my husband and boys and I drove just over an hour to a small farm to pick up our new puppy–Roxie, a Great Dane. We didn’t set out to get Roxie. I had no desire for a female dog. But as we sat amidst the wriggling, snuffling, tumbling, group of pups, she crawled into my husband’s lap, laid down, and promptly fell asleep. To us, it seemed that she was saying, “These will be my people.”

And so we were. And so we are. But life with Roxie isn’t at all what we envisioned. We’re no strangers to giant dog breeds, so we thought we had it covered. But then Roxie came and showed me that I don’t know anything. Roxie is playful, and cuddly. She’s smart and goofy. But she’s also willful and impulsive, as well as reactive and defensive. We’ve done a lot of work with Roxie over the past couple of years, from socialization to group training and even some individual training to work on issues of resource guarding. And still, it can be a struggle. Most recently, she became aggressive with our older dog, sending him to the vet two days in a row for sutures. And she bit another dog while we were out on a hike.

To say that I reached the end of my tether was an understatement. How could this dog, who spends 90 percent of her time cuddling with others on the couch, be so difficult? How were my husband and I, who had done everything we were supposed to do, be in this situation? Why do other people have such an easy time with their dogs? Why can’t I have the dog I envisioned when we set out on this journey together? Why can’t things be different?

All of us, at one point or another, end up in situations that are vastly different from what we envisioned. Sometimes, they’re better. A missed opportunity, a broken heart, a major disappointment paves the way for something greater, something we never could have envisioned on our own.

But other times, these unimagined situations leave us completely shattered, and we wonder: What do we do now? How do we pick up the pieces of our dreams and make new ones when we’re just so scared and tired and sore?

On a cool and overcast day in March, I walked with Roxie on a lonely ridge beside the Missouri River. The wind blustered about around us, scattering dead leaves and grasses while causing the naked trees to groan in protest and the river waters to roar. I was sad, and anxious. But there was Roxie, running gleefully into and out of the woods, tongue flopping through her muzzle as she jumped and chased imaginary squirrels. My difficult dog was full of joy, despite the cold and wind and clouds. And I thought about creation, and God’s hand in all of it, and I came to a startling conclusion: God cares for this dog because she is his created. And he finds joy in her, too.

I had thought it inappropriate to burden God with my anxiety and fear and disappointment around a dog…seriously…she’s a DOG. The world is a giant dumpster fire right now, so who cares? Turns out, God does. So, on that ridge, alone in the seemingly middle of nowhere, as the wind hurled itself against the terra firma, I poured it all out to God. And he told me it was okay.

But he also told me to get out of my head–to stop hiding and wallowing and having drawn-out tête-à-têtes with anxiety. My life feels like it’s been hijacked at the moment, but it hasn’t been… not really. It’s different from what I pictured, and there are unexpected challenges for sure, but that giant ball of fear-fueled chaos causing my heart to pound and my thoughts to scatter? That’s of my own making, and it only serves to draw me further away from the one who promises peace.

And so, I’m trying each day to lay it down. I’m trying to find the joy in my daily walks, even when I lose Roxie to a squirrel. I’m trying to not feel discouraged when she snaps at me for taking away a paper towel that she’s absconded with. I’m trying to accept that she is who she is and most of it is really great. And through it all, God is showing me rays of hope…gentle reminders that he does care about the big and small, that there is life beyond our present circumstances, and that he will help us navigate whatever comes.

Blessings and Peace,

Sara (and Roxie)