Shedding

Coco is shedding her winter coat in great, black clumps that glob onto the living room carpet and blow like tumbleweeds under the kitchen’s ceiling fan.  Twice a day now, we are vacuuming our rugs, emptying the canister between runs, watching matted dog hair and dirt drift into the kitchen trash.

In the evenings, after work, I change into old clothes and call her out onto the front porch.  We both sit on the wooden floorboards and I pull our dollar store pet brush slowly through her wooly black curls.  

It’s satisfying and soothing all at once, the way I imagine brushing a horse must be.  When the brush is full, I pull the clumps off, gathering a growing pile to mark my progress, my accumulated success.  

Tonight, I cornered our tomcat, Blackie in the green grass and gave him a good brushing too.  He took it with equal parts purring and complaint. 

A friend admitted awhile back, after her elderly dog died, that she was elated to be freed from the extra mess – she would not be getting another dog.  I know, for a lot of people, pet hair is reason enough to refrain from ownership.  My own mother battled dog hair with a broom and dust pan, like she was battling the devil itself.

It does bother me – the hair, the dirt, not to mention the litter box’s stinking mess.  But, still, I know those few minutes each evening are some of the best of my day – some of the purest, the simplest - stroking and gathering, shedding what no longer serves. 

Some Days, We Nap Together (What Tragedy Demands of Us)

Some days, after working in my office all morning and eating a quick lunch at my desk, my body grows heavy and slow and my thoughts turn to molasses.  With just an hour left before the first child arrives back home, before I leave to work an evening shift at the library, I close my laptop, grab my phone and head for my office door.  My dog, Coco, half-sleeping in her corner chair, lifts her head, then jumps down and follows me outside across the blacktop soaked with sunlight, up the back steps, and into the big house. 

Inside, I pause while we each get a drink of water – her at her metal bowl and me at the vintage water fountain near our kitchen door.  Then, I grab a blanket or beach towel – whichever is warm enough and near at hand – and head into the winter room where the wood stove sits heavy in the corner, squat and round, a cast iron Buddha.  Coco follows at my heels and watches patiently as I hunt one room, then another, in search of our sole throw pillow. 

Pillow in hand, I lay down in the same position, always.  Pressing the pillow into one end of our old, leather love seat, I lay down on my right side, curling my long legs to fit on the too-short sofa.  Coco watches with patience and focus as I spread the blanket or towel over myself, then stick my legs out straight off of the couch, offering a pathway to the pocket of empty space at the far end. 

I pat the leather with my hand, twice.  Coco pauses, very still, and looks me in the eye, double-checking her permission.  “Come on, Coco,” I say and up she jumps, then turns and settles in the corner.  I bend my legs again and tuck in around her, careful to keep from bumping her muzzle with my feet.  The warmth of her soft, sweet body adds to my own and we sleep, tucked together, her head resting on my ankles. 

Her presence, as I rest, is pure gift.  The gift of quiet, undemanding companionship; the gift of with-ness that cannot be measured save for the way it softens and steadies the human heart. 

She wakes, when I wake and shift.  Or, sometimes, too warm and close for comfort, she hops down before the nap gets under way.  Some days, if I'm lucky, our handsome black cat notices our napping nest and jumps down from his solitary leather chair and comes purring along into my arms.  On those days, the cat settles opposite the dog, in the space in front of my chest.  Together, we form a sort of yin-yang arrangement of fur and flesh, the cat in front of me, the dog behind.  

//

I experience a profound goodness during these naps, which may seem a small thing amidst all the world’s evils and sorrows, not to mention my own small entanglements.  But I am wondering whether tragedy really demands the trivializing of such moments of beauty, wonder, and grace – moments when the human soul stretches and softens, relaxed and at ease?

Perhaps tragedy and sorrow, worry and fear, require instead, that we linger and luxuriate in these moments.  Maybe Love itself invites us to spread them out wide for the world to see or to tuck them in somewhere safe, like a golden leaf in fall noticed, gathered, and pressed between the pages of a book where it can be rediscovered time and again in the long winter months ahead. 

I love these moments with the dog, the cat; they are precious to me and I cannot pass them off as something less than mercy and grace.  Evil is never defeat by casting what is precious aside.  Evil is defeated when we gently welcome, gather and share what is good and holy and true.  In this way light and life and love are born and borne and multiplied in our midst. 

The world is a heavy and troubled place.  It is also riddled through with mercy, grace and love.  In these days of naming darkness, let us remember also to gather and spread the Light we're given, casting it high and wide, like a million stars lighting up the night.

 Coco and I sharing a little pre-nap love. 

Where are you finding Mercy, Grace and Love these days??

Not Where, but With

I never envisioned

being the kind of woman

who drives around with a dog

sitting sentinel in the passenger seat - 

I’m a cat person, after all. 

But she loves to go, so I let her.

On straight stretches I reach over

and bury my hand in her fur 

and she keeps my seat warm 

while I’m in the store. 

For her, it isn’t about where,

but with.  The excitement of a car

ride is no more tantalizing than following

me to the Little House where she curls

in a chair and I sit, still in the driver’s seat,

pecking away on a keyboard.  

It isn’t about where, but with.

God is a Lover (A Winter Miracle)

(I wrote this post back when winter was still slowly fading, not long after we decided to rehome the first dog we adopted, but I'm just getting around to posting it now.  Hopefully next week I'll finish up a piece about our new dog, Coco, who's proven to be a much better fit.)

The old snow in the yard shrank back from the crisp coat of ice on top and the kids and I walked along tapping down lacy caves with our feet as we waited for the bus. 

We all seemed lighter, having decided to re-home our new dog Jaxon. 

After they left on the bus, Jaxon and I headed out to the back field and I was sad.  Although I framed it as a gift for my husband and kids, I now know that I was the one who needed a dog this winter.  Having him here gave me something to focus on, some deep joy and a reason to get outside.  Without that dog, I wouldn’t have known the birds were singing, that winter, though posing still as fierce, was waning.

 

But Jaxon was scared of our older kids, scared of older kids in general and growled and snapped at them on occasion.  He needed a quieter home where he could feel more secure, less threatened.  And we needed a dog our kids could love freely without fear.  It wasn’t an easy decision to make, but three weeks in we decided Jaxon should be re-homed.    

While posting Jaxon on Craigslist, it occurred to me to contact his original owners to fill them in on the situation – I didn’t want them to see him up for adoption and wonder what had happened.  We got him from a family with two young children – a two-year-old and a newborn who was ill and in need of surgery.  They were overwhelmed and needed one less thing to manage. 

That’s what struck me as I stood in the crunchy field and Jaxon sniffed all along the fence line.  I was tempted to feel regret, to tell and believe a story of impulsive decision-making on our part, a story of failure.  That’s one possible story, but standing in that spacious place, I sensed another story too, a story running just beneath the surface, one filled with grace and mysterious mercy. 

When I texted the original owners they replied immediately, “Bring him back, we can make it work.”  It seemed they had turned a corner.  “Our daughter will get better, spring will come and we can take him out more,” they said. 

//

There was a family who needed help with a dog they loved. 

There also was a family (or more clearly, a woman) who needed something new, some loving bit of softness and joy to nurture for a while.  By the mercy of God (and Craigslist) the two became connected and the needs and abilities matched up for a few brief weeks. 

I don’t believe God is a matchmaker – a meddling force stitching together lives with neat precision – but I am beginning to understand God is a lover.  This is the lens through which God sees the world – sees you.  God stitches lives together, hearts together, to multiply love (which God IS) and thereby God multiplies God’s own presence among us.

God’s creative love knows no bounds.

This is the great God of scripture, leaning down into the world, seeing, hearing, knowing the cries of his people.  God sending.  God arriving.  Leading, loving. 

This and this alone is the story that runs beneath the surface of all our lives - God’s grace, God’s mercy, God’s love.

//

God sees two weary women, two towns apart.  

One has a dog she cannot bear, another needs a dog to love.  

God’s fingers twitch, eyes twinkle and love is born and multiplied in our midst.

Every miracle, at its heart, comes down to this - God is love. 

Canine Prayers

This isn't our dog, but you get the idea, right? Photo Source.

Be still, and know that I am God . . . Psalm 46:10

She’s nestled at my side right now, sleeping with great, heavy sighs, her long legs tucked and curled in a fetal position. 

I’m still learning the stillness of dogs.  They don’t purr when happy, don’t flap their tales angrily when the petting becomes too much.  Their language is altogether different. 

//

I wake up early every morning intending to ingest caffeine and find time to pray, journal and read.  Too often, though, once the computer’s on, I’m off and running - making lists, commenting, writing and, in the worst of circumstances, reading depressingly bizarre articles on Yahoo.  Sitting in an old wooden Adirondack chair by the wood stove, I hit the ground running, bolting into the day on a caffeine driven wave of activity. 

I notice the early morning darkness, the stillness and calm, but I don’t enter into it.

This dog, though, she sleeps curled on the worn, leather couch at the bottom of the stairs.  A blur of black and brown, she blends in and only her deep snores give her away. 

She is warm, she is still, she is calm. 

Walking over to say good morning with my tall cup of coffee in hand, she invites me, wordlessly, to sit and snuggle.  Settling on the couch, I pull her into my lap and she presses her head against my shoulder.  

Now I am still, warm and growing calm. 

There’s no room for the computer with a dog in my lap.  It’s too dark for a book, no room, no light for journaling.  So, I pray in a quiet, wordless way, settling in to Something More like that pup curled on the couch.  Slowly, the sun rises across the field, covering the landscape with its wordless, changing light.  

When my husband comes walking through the darkness to kiss me goodbye, I’m there still almost hidden on the couch.  And every morning now, I choose – to work by the fire or to enter into the quiet call to prayer that arises from the soft sounds of our silent, sleeping dog.   

//

Sometimes I find myself called to prayer in the most surprising ways - what calls your heart to prayer?

This post is linked with The High Calling for their series on Spiritual Disciplines. Click on the link to read more stories.