the boy and his dog
He cries. My eldest son, my first baby, brushing away lonely tears on the eve of losing his first dog. I stand by his bed, the upper bunk, reaching a hand up to smooth his hair, just like I did when he was sleeping in my arms as a newborn. His cowlick, ever unruly and refusing to stay kept except with water (we have not ventured yet into gel products!), feels coarse under my hand.
He sniffles and I hear the hot tears course down reluctant cheeks. "It's going to be so lonely without her, Mama..."
I wait a moment, allowing his words to have time to resonate value. "Yes..." And I fight the urge to fill in the blanks with logic, with reason void of understanding. My son, who only begins to unfurl his true thoughts at bedtime, needs to be heard. Not silenced.
As a mother, it grieves my heart to see my children grieving. To watch them suffer. And we are so early on in the game. We have yet to confront the pains of a broken heart, of rejection, of injustice. Or have we? Perhaps we are practicing now, in the quieter, petri dish of life, for those seasons later in life when the unimaginable, the inescapable part of living in a fallen world hits home.
It is a moment for me to practice not trying to cover over his pain, fill it with platitudes or distractions that would keep him from feeling what he needs to feel right now. Because in feeling pain, feeling that emptiness, that lack, he may turn to the Only One who can truly redeem and fill that empty place.
So now, I listen. And I pray that this would grow my family to the Comforter of our hearts.
*****
Now she is gone. The 13 pound caramel-colored puppy that crawled into my lap at the shelter with eager timidity and won us over with her gentleness. The now 50+ pound older puppy that turned my world upside when I had just found out that I was pregnant for the fifth time. When Steve took a job that has stretched our family's fabric with its long hours and frequent trips.
I am at once relieved and sad. Relieved that I can open the refrigerator without getting a dog nose stuck into the cheese drawer looking for handouts. Relieved that I have one less "person" to care for with just three weeks until our house goes on the market. Relieved that I can start to re-build my backyard without fear of a dog uprooting bulbs and tearing off branches out of sheer puppy boredom.
As an adult, you come to understand that most decisions are not black and white. One decision rules out a thousand others, remarked Elisabeth Elliot. The decision to put Emmy up for adoption did not come without tears, without inner and outer wrestling in our family. She had come to be a part of our family, to take up physical space and emotional space in each of our hearts. But for our sanity, for the sake of a harmonious marriage, the dog had to go.
It helps that Emmy was adopted by a wonderful family with four children, two of which are teenagers. They are animal lovers and loved Emmy (now Maggie) from the first day they met her. Today is day one in her new home and she is doing great.
And in this, I thank God-- he knows what we-- and Emmy-- need.
He sniffles and I hear the hot tears course down reluctant cheeks. "It's going to be so lonely without her, Mama..."
I wait a moment, allowing his words to have time to resonate value. "Yes..." And I fight the urge to fill in the blanks with logic, with reason void of understanding. My son, who only begins to unfurl his true thoughts at bedtime, needs to be heard. Not silenced.
As a mother, it grieves my heart to see my children grieving. To watch them suffer. And we are so early on in the game. We have yet to confront the pains of a broken heart, of rejection, of injustice. Or have we? Perhaps we are practicing now, in the quieter, petri dish of life, for those seasons later in life when the unimaginable, the inescapable part of living in a fallen world hits home.
It is a moment for me to practice not trying to cover over his pain, fill it with platitudes or distractions that would keep him from feeling what he needs to feel right now. Because in feeling pain, feeling that emptiness, that lack, he may turn to the Only One who can truly redeem and fill that empty place.
So now, I listen. And I pray that this would grow my family to the Comforter of our hearts.
*****
Now she is gone. The 13 pound caramel-colored puppy that crawled into my lap at the shelter with eager timidity and won us over with her gentleness. The now 50+ pound older puppy that turned my world upside when I had just found out that I was pregnant for the fifth time. When Steve took a job that has stretched our family's fabric with its long hours and frequent trips.
I am at once relieved and sad. Relieved that I can open the refrigerator without getting a dog nose stuck into the cheese drawer looking for handouts. Relieved that I have one less "person" to care for with just three weeks until our house goes on the market. Relieved that I can start to re-build my backyard without fear of a dog uprooting bulbs and tearing off branches out of sheer puppy boredom.
As an adult, you come to understand that most decisions are not black and white. One decision rules out a thousand others, remarked Elisabeth Elliot. The decision to put Emmy up for adoption did not come without tears, without inner and outer wrestling in our family. She had come to be a part of our family, to take up physical space and emotional space in each of our hearts. But for our sanity, for the sake of a harmonious marriage, the dog had to go.
It helps that Emmy was adopted by a wonderful family with four children, two of which are teenagers. They are animal lovers and loved Emmy (now Maggie) from the first day they met her. Today is day one in her new home and she is doing great.
And in this, I thank God-- he knows what we-- and Emmy-- need.
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