Rewrite {A Poem}

Is it too soon to call this year a total rewrite?

One, no, two new medical diagnoses,

Four new doctors,

One surgery down, one to go
For this year,

And now quarantine,

Plague,

Economic collapse?

Just like that,

The Editor bled red ink all over the pages of my calendar,

My plans for the year,

My hopes for the days to come.

While I grieve the changes,

The losses,

The 2 AM weight of new fears,

I acknowledge Your control of the molecules of my body,

The molecules of the air,

The movement of millions.

This could not have come unless You

Are actively orchestrating,

Editing,

Rewriting it for good

To your people,

Who love you and are called according to Your purpose.

I acknowledge that the days being rewritten

Are not being written out of Your plans.

All the days of my life were written in Your book

Before there was yet one.

You rewrote the poem of me from death to life

In Christ Jesus

To do the good works

You prepared ahead of time.

This total rewrite is the path

Of dying to my first draft

And embracing Yours.

If I knew

What You know

About the millions of things You are doing

In these months,

I would claim the gift You offer in this rewrite.

And You do offer a gift.

Do I dare to wait for it,

Watch for it,

Expect it,

Believe it?

A child at 99–

Rewrite.

A 430 year sojourn in a foreign land,

Descending from princes to slaves—

Rewrite.

Another 40-year delay for the deliverer's

Delivery,

Then plague upon plague

Until Your time was right—

Rewrite.

40 years of the not-so-scenic route

Through the wilderness

To the Promised Land—

Rewrite.

Divided kingdom,

Unanointed kings,

Unintended worship—

Rewrite.

Seven decades in Babylon—

Rewrite.

Return, rebuilding, restoration—

Rewrite.

A voice crying in the wilderness—

Rewrite.

A babe for a virgin—

Rewrite.

Messiah on a cross—

Rewrite.

Empty tomb—

Rewrite.

As hard as it is to lose the year I'd hoped to have

And the things which will never be the same

Normal

Again,

Here I am, Lord.

May this rewrite

Set me right

In plans and patterns

I didn't even know had gone wrong.

I trust You;

Help me trust You.

"With": Advent Joy {Steinway Parable}

Saturday morning I dreamed of Steinway, my beloved dog of 16 years, my first dog, the dog the Lord used to help me heal from a season of deep brokenness. In the dream, I was the 2017 me, with my current level of joint pain and limitation; Steinway was the old dog and full of days, circa 2008. He wanted me to lift him onto my lap, but he was too heavy for me. With immense effort, he made the jump and snuggled up between my leg and the arm of the chair. As is usual for me, the dream was in color; as is not so usual for me, I could feel the weight of him and touch his fur. The only other thing I remember of the dream is that we were at my husband's parents' home, and it was full of people, as it was for the two memorial services this year. We had taken Steinway with us because he was too frail to be left with anyone else.

I woke missing him more than I have in a long time.

The memories of his final months came rushing back. This loyal dog, who had awakened in the night with me so many times when illness or jet lag or simple insomnia took me from bed, would wake almost every night between 2 and 3 am. He would find his way to the living room and then start yelping with enough insistence to wake me up.

Sometimes he needed to go outside and was telling me the only way he knew. Most of the time, though, I think he was lonely and afraid. A Bible study friend suggested that dogs could develop dementia like people do, and perhaps his days and nights were mixed up.

Whatever the reason, he was unable to soothe himself and go back to sleep without help. I would pick him up and do the rock-and-bounce walk known to all parents and babysitters until his ragged breathing slowed and he began to calm down. "It's okay. I'm here. You're okay," I would whisper.

When he was calm enough, we would lie down on the sofa, me on my back, Steinway on my chest like an infant, my arms around him, stroking his fur. There we would stay until we both fell asleep. Unaccustomed to sleeping on my back, I would wake after half an hour, give or take, and oh so carefully rise and carry him back to his bed in Amore's and my room.

One night when I was unhappy to be awakened and growing impatient with Steinway's needs, the Lord reminded me that this was the least I could do for the dog who had done so much for me, and that my days with him were numbered. Soon I would long for that middle-of-the-night closeness and the weight of my puppyface in my arms.

And then He showed me the parable in the experience. If I, being evil, sacrificed sleep and came at the sound of my dog's frightened cry, how much more can I trust that the Lord hears and heeds the cries of His blood-bought daughter? How much more will He console and comfort? How much more will He be with me in the dark nights of my soul?

That's where Advent joy comes in. The "good news of great joy" the angel announced to the shepherds was that a Savior, a Rescuer, had been born for them (Luke 2:8-14). Yahweh their God had seen their sins and oppression and heard their cries, and He had come Himself to rescue them. He had entered their affliction as a baby, but this baby was the virgin-born Immanuel whom Isaiah foretold: "God with us" (Matt. 1:22; Isaiah 7:14). In the apostle John's words, this baby was the Word who became flesh and tabernacled among us (John 1:14). This baby was the "consolation of Israel" for whom Simeon waited in the temple (Luke 2:25).

The good news of "God with us," right in the middle of our mess and sin, in the middle of the night, in affliction, in the cries of our hearts--that is the beginning of Advent joy. His presence is the joy and comfort of the people He has redeemed. How shall we respond?

Shout for joy, you heavens!

Earth, rejoice!

Mountains break into joyful shouts!

For the LORD has comforted his people,

and will have compassion on his afflicted ones (Isaiah 49:13).

Charles H. Spurgeon's comments on these promises from Isaiah call us to worship and wonder at the Lord's compassion on His afflicted ones:

Isaiah's joy was too great for him to give adequate expression to it with his own solitary tongue, so he called on the great mountainous masses of inanimate nature to express the greatness of God's love and tender mercy in comforting his people. And, when we come to think of it rightly, we see at once that it is a theme for wonder, worthy of the consideration of heaven and earth that the infinite God should stoop so low as to comfort finite and fallible creatures such as we are. Were there no more worlds to be created? Were there no other deeds of power and glory to be performed so that he must come to this poor earth to comfort the sick, the sad, and the sorrowing? The Lord is great in the majesty of his power, but he is equally great in the condescending character of his love and compassion. After Jehovah's great creative works were done, the creation must not be slack in its music when his condescending works are done also--when from the highest heavens he stoops to those in deepest woe to lift them up from their sins and sorrows by the power of his eternal compassion.

Dear Crumbles, does this Advent find you, perhaps, not feeling the joy the carols proclaim? Does the call to rejoice feel like one more burden too heavy to bear?

Then cry out to your Master and Savior. Cry to Him, and keep crying until the Comforter ministers grace to your heart.  Meditate on the wonder that "the infinite God should stoop so low as to comfort finite and fallible creatures such as we are." Consider the greatness of "the condescending character of his love and compassion." Dare to believe the good news of Christmas, that "from the highest heavens he stoops to those in deepest woe to lift them up from their sins and sorrows by the power of his eternal compassion." Seek Him in the Scriptures, in prayer, in His people, and He will be found by you. Lean into Him; lay all the weight of yourself and your concerns on Him, and let Him comfort you. Rest in the reality of "God with us," of "God with you," and let His presence be your joy.

Father of mercies, comfort our afflictions. Amen.

I Wait for You

Therefore the Lord waits to be gracious to you,

and therefore he exalts himself to show mercy to you.

For the Lord is a God of justice;

blessed are all those who wait for him.

Isaiah 30:18, ESV

Ebony and I are creatures of habit. We like the routines and rhythms of a day at home without appointments. (Amore craves more variety, except first thing in the morning.) The first expectation of every day--well, after Amore hits snooze on the alarm clock at least once--is that he opens the door of Ebony's crate. Ebony shoots off like a rocket down the hall, Kong in his mouth, because the Kong usually still contains the bedtime cookie from the night before. By the time we slow and decrepit humans get to the coffee pot, Ebony is sitting on the love seat drooling, tail thumping like the drum in a military band. When we sandwich him there, hot beverages in our hands, he either drops the Kong in our laps or throws it at us, (depending on the value he has assigned to the kind of cookie inside). This is his way of asking us for help in extracting said cookie, which sometimes is easier said than done, especially before our first cup of coffee.

Some days since my shoulder surgery have been different. While the bones heal on the right side, I must sleep on my left side. Many nights my body protests this at some point and I move to the reclining love seat in the living room, currently my only alternative for pain-free sleep. On those mornings, Allen hits snooze back in the bedroom. When his feet hit the floor, he opens Ebony's crate. Ebony flies down the hall, with or without the Kong, and takes a flying leap from halfway across the living room into my lap. On these days I awake to a jolt followed by a flurry of kisses, tail wags, and possibly a Kong thrown at my face.

Ebony has a very keen nose and ears and typically is so attuned to my whereabouts that we could accurately have named him Shadow. If he weren't crated, he would probably follow me into the living room on my uncomfortable nights, just as his predecessor Steinway did. (Steinway was not crate-trained. We tried once, and he growled something about did we feel lucky and to make his day.)

This Monday morning I had relocated to the recliner at 2:30 am and settled back into a sound sleep. I didn't hear the coffee or tea maker through my ear plugs but awakened to a sense of movement and the light coming on in the adjacent kitchen. Amore trudged past the table and made his way to the coffee.

What? No flying Labradoxie tackle? No Kong in my lap? I asked Amore where Ebony was. Had he forgotten to open his crate?

No, it was open. Ebony, he said, thought I was still asleep in the bedroom and had settled in there to wait for me.

Didn't he tell him I wasn't there?

Yes, but he didn't believe him. I'd have to go show him myself.

Drawing on the ninja skills apparently acquired during the night, I tiptoed walked as quietly as I could down the hall and peered into the room. Ebony had stretched out in the prettiest "down" you could want to see, his face towards my side of the bed with his Labrador ears aimed like satellite dishes at the pile of pillows he thought was me. His Kong lay on the floor beside him, cast aside in his preoccupation with the bed. Clearly, he was not going anywhere without his mama, and he'd wait as long as it took.

"Ebony," I said, "I'm back here, sweetie."

He bounced up and pivoted to face me, all in one springloaded motion. His tail started wagging and he bounded toward me, stopped, turned back for his Kong, and raced past me down the hall to resume our usual routine.

In the moment, I laughed at his misunderstanding and smiled broadly at how loved and cherished it made me feel. Where "Special Agent Hoover" is concerned, there will be no man left behind, especially not me. As I've pondered the memory in my heart for a day or two, though, I've asked the Lord if He had something more He wanted me to learn from this.

If Ebony in this experience were analogous to me, and I were analogous to my heavenly Master (which, granted, demands tremendous suspension of disbelief), similar to the sheep-shepherd metaphor of the Scriptures, what might this teach me?

First, Ebony's dedicated expectation challenges me to keep hoping, keep waiting on God when I'm growing faint in my prayers and answers seem long in coming. In that morning, his routine didn't matter; his Kong didn't matter; a cozy nest on the love seat didn't matter. All that mattered was waiting on his master. Do I do that, or am I quick to give up and look for solutions and satisfaction elsewhere? Too often, the latter.

Second, Ebony's immediate specific hope (that I would get out of bed) was disappointed. He was waiting for the wrong thing, or for the right thing in the wrong place. In my case, what am I waiting and hoping for? Ultimately, the only hope certain not to disappoint is hope in God and in the Word and promises of God. Paul described this to Titus this way:

waiting for our blessed hope, the appearing of the glory of our great God and Savior Jesus Christ (Titus 2:13).

The "what," then, is the glorious appearing of our God and Savior Jesus Christ, the consummation of all the promises of God. We are waiting for God Himself.

Where or how should I wait? The context of the above verse offers one answer to that question:

For the grace of God has appeared, bringing salvation for all people, training us to renounce ungodliness and worldly passions, and to live self-controlled, upright, and godly lives in the present age, waiting for our blessed hope, the appearing of the glory of our great God and Savior Jesus Christ, who gave himself for us to redeem us from all lawlessness and to purify for himself a people for his own possession who are zealous for good works (Titus 2:11-14).

When I yield to the grace of God's training, I learn "to renounce ungodliness and worldly passions." Grace teaches me, us, "to live self-controlled, upright, and godly lives in this present age." The comely, appropriate, obedient way to wait for our Blessed Hope is to live increasingly in accordance with Christ's self-giving "to redeem us from all lawlessness and purify for Himself a people for His own possession who are zealous for good works." The grace that meets us as we are does not leave us as we are. Insofar as my life doesn't look like that, I am waiting for Christ's return in the wrong place, in the wrong way.

This is impossible in and of myself. Thanks be to God that I don't have to live in and of myself. Rather,

I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me. And the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me (Galatians 2:20).

He will enable even my waiting as I turn my face toward Him. He waits to be gracious to us. He exalts Himself to show mercy to us. Blessed are all who wait for Him.

Linking to my friends Laura and Bonnie this week:

Green Dragons and Baby Gates {Steinway Parable}

It's hard to believe, but Steinway, my Lhasa Apso, has been gone three years. As I have been remembering him lately, this story from apartment life in our first year back from the mission field has come to mind.

Steinway’s nemesis lives in our hall closet and emerges once a week or so for half an hour of terror. This green dragon, though chained to the wall, roars through our home devouring everything in its wake, and Steinway believes puppy-dog tails are its favorite food. Whenever it growls to life, consequently, he looks at me reproachfully and then scurries frantically from one hiding place to another. Just as he finds one that seems safe from the dragon’s clutches and starts barking at it with all the bravado he can muster, it approaches his new nest and he yelps and scampers to find a better one. From the looks he gives me, the most perplexing aspect of this trauma seems to be that his mommy would do such a thing. After all, I’m the one who lets it out, holds its leash, and apparently sends it chasing after him. If I am truly mistress of this home and love him, what am I thinking??!!!

You will understand, though Steinway receives my explanations with a blank stare, that I have a purpose greater than his own comfort: specifically, the cleanliness of the home we share. Also, because I do hold the reins to this beast, I will do everything in my power to keep it from swallowing his precious tail. And since it is only a vacuum cleaner and not a living creature, there’s no reason I shouldn’t be successful in the attempt, unless in Steinway’s desperate efforts to escape he crosses my path before I can avert the impending doom.

So what’s a mother to do? Well, this mother finally decided to throw him in the dungeon. Steinway, that is, not the vacuum cleaner. And actually it’s not a dungeon, just our bathroom, but from the way he cries and carries on you’d think it was the Pit of Despair, where years of his life will soon be sucked away.

Granted, it is a small, windowless room with nowhere to run around, but I do herd all his toys, his water bowl, and his favorite pillow in there before putting him in. What’s more, I lock him in with the baby gate rather than shutting the door, so he has a full view of Allen’s flowers on the balcony (and where his enemy is at all times).

That bathroom is the safest possible place for him at those moments, and the barrier he hates is the very thing that keeps him out of danger. What Steinway cannot understand, however, he will not trust. Given his history with me, since I’m the one who put him in the room and provided all manner of good things for his enjoyment, he could settle down on his pillow with his wooly-man and wait quietly until I opened the gate again. He could even stand at the gate and watch, barking from his impregnable fortress (barking without rebuke being a rare treat) or just marveling at my control over the beast, allowing it “thus far and no farther.”

Instead, he stands at the gate and cries to get out. And cries. And cries. It breaks my heart to hear him, and doesn’t do much for my ears, either, but it avails him nothing. This time, persistent, plaintive pleas do not change the outcome. Though I love him, my purpose to clean the carpets remains unchanged; because I love him, my purpose to protect him by confining him in a small space and unpleasant surroundings also remains unchanged.

Finally, the ordeal ends and I release him from prison. Invariably, he proceeds to check out the apartment. Did that monster eat anything important, like his food bowl? He pauses to sniff the air. Then he snorts:  Hmph. Smells okay. After assuring himself that all is again well and the danger has passed, he comes to me and burrows his head alternately in my lap and hand, which being interpreted means, “Pet me. NOW.” A disgusting display of mutual affection and a cookie follows. Doesn’t he deserve a reward for being so brave? After all, that dragon could have eaten his tail.

Lord, even though I laugh at some of the things my dogs do, at how foolish and slow of heart they sometimes are to understand, they are all too often more of a mirror than I'd like to admit. Someday, perhaps, I'll trust You so that I'll lean into the adventure of the dragons that roar and threaten me. Someday, perhaps, I'll grow bold and brave in the knowledge that You hold the reins of every danger, and no painful circumstance can touch me unless You in loving wisdom allow it. If I being evil desire so to protect my furry friends, how much more will You look after Your beloved child? Today, though, mostly I squirm away from the threats and yelp with fear and anxiety more than with actual pain. Lord, I trust You; I long to trust You more; help my distrust, for the sake of Jesus the Overcomer. Amen.

The Lord has established his throne in heaven,

    and his kingdom rules over all.

Psalm 103:19, NIV

Midnight Cry {Steinway Parable}

O God, be not far from me;

O my God, make haste to help me!

Psalm 70:12, ESV

Can you find the real animal here?

Thunk. "Eeyowww!"

Heart pounding, I jolt awake. Steinway, that's Steinway's cry. Feeling my way through the bed linens at my feet where he was, where he should be, I can't find that 3-month old ball of fur.

My eyes adjust to the reading light and I scan the daybed. The whimpering seems to be coming from inside, no, under something. Is he under the bed?

Kneeling, I raise the dust ruffle to search, but I need a flashlight to locate him, against the wall behind the milk crates full of books and out-of-season clothes.

"Shhh, shhh. Hey, baby. It's okay. I'm here. Just come on out now. It's all right. It's me. You're going to be all right."

Still he whimpers, too scared and disoriented to come to my voice.

One box slides out, two. I reach under the bed to scoop him out, but he's just that wee bit too far for me to do more than brush his fur with my fingertips.

Three boxes slide out, four. Crawling under the bed, still talking to him, trying to soothe, I gather him in the crook of my arm and back out.

"Poor little fellow. That must have been frightening to fall off the bed in your sleep. It's okay now. I've got you. There, there, you're safe now."

Sitting amidst the boxes, we rock, I coo, he settles down at last. We nestle back into the bed and sleep, him breathing ragged against my chest.

If I respond so quickly to the midnight cry of my puppy, how can I expect that God would do any less for me, His blood-bought child? When I feel like I'm in that scary, under the bed darkness at 2 a.m., sometimes the essence of faith is to cry to Him and wait for Him to come and comfort with His presence. When His Spirit comes alongside, the darkness becomes a tabernacle full of Him, my cries the incense prayers.

We are poorest when we think we have it made and on the brink of true riches when we realize our helplessness and cry out to Jesus knowing His very name is Savior.

If this finds you feeling alone and helpless in the darkness of affliction, dear Crumble, call out to God. May He draw very near to you and give you peace, the assurance of His nearness and promises to all who are His children through faith in Christ Jesus. Even if your circumstances do not change, may you know with confidence that your Father from whom darkness flees is under the bed with you.

The eyes of the LORD are towards the righteous

and his ears towards their cry.

When the righteous cry for help, the LORD hears

and delivers them out of all their troubles.

The Lord is near to the broken-hearted

and saves the crushed in spirit.

The LORD is near to all who call on him,

to all who call on him in truth.

Psalms 34:15, 17-18; 145:18, ESV

Pondering faith today with the folks at Ann's and Emily's:

Arrival Day

Three years ago today, Ebony joined our family. After Somo died around Memorial Day 2008, Steinway and Allen were lonely. For at least a week, Steinway would sit on the mat staring at the front door as though waiting for his buddy to return from a walk. Allen missed his fuzz therapist and personal trainer. I missed him, too, but I was still somewhat shell-shocked from his final days and not as quick to look for his successor. Whenever the time came to adopt another, I was already asking God for a healthy dog who would be a good and loving companion for us both.

As soon as Allen had returned from a mission trip to Central America, however, the search commenced. We scavenged petfinder.com for candidates and kept detailed bookmark folders of our favorites. We considered Chiweenies (Chihuahua-dachshund mixes), dachshunds of all varieties, terrier and beagle mixes, and we drove around town meeting and greeting a few but without agreement.

Finally we saw a dachshund mix named Rex. The description said he was super-sized; as it turned out, he was around 35 pounds, considerably bigger than Somo or Steinway or the other pint-sized candidates. After a little research into the shelter where he was living and other possibilities there, we planned an evening visit.

The volunteer couldn't find him at first. A black dog pressed against the back wall of his crate on the bottom of double-decker kennels proved well nigh invisible. Checking and double-checking the tags against the print-out we'd brought, she finally found him and was astonished she hadn't met him before in his four-month residence.

She led him out to the courtyard and handed him off to us. He was tentative at first but quickly warmed up to the Milk-Bones we had brought along.

We interviewed a couple of other candidates. The other strong possibility was a brown, Benji-like terrier mix with a very outgoing personality.

After talking the decision over at home, praying together, and "sleeping on it," we decided on Rex the super-dachshund. Well, actually, Allen recognized I was smitten and honored my preference.

The next day, July 11, 2008, I brought Rex home while Allen was at work.

No, he wasn't in trouble already. The shelter advised using the crate for housetraining him.

Also, we decided he would be safer there until Steinway decided he was a friendly.

We renamed him Ebony. Not only did he ably fill the roles of buddy for Steinway, fuzz therapist for Allen, and personal trainer extraordinaire for both of us, he has also become our court jester on many needful occasions.

Ebony also inspired one of the very first blog posts here, the poem "Sermon on the Sofa."

Thanks be to God today
~for all His good gifts, including family and pets
~for our three dogs, each so distinctive and loved
~for a happy, healthy too-smart-for-his-own-good Ebony dog
~for a short work week for Allen last week
~for his industry spending time off by painting the outside of our house (still a work in progress)
~for excellent customer service with a faulty grocery item
~for a broken garage door
~for our amazing garage door service provider (If you live on the north side of Dallas and need a referral, please e-mail me.)
~for one minor problem bringing him out to our house in time to discover the spring was about to break, too
~for lunch with a new friend after many unsuccessful attempts
~for the fellowship of fellow sufferers
~for dinner out with my beloved
~for grilled salmon (see above)
~for summer fruit
~for pink roses and yellow orchids on the table
~for cloud cover taking the edge of a hot day
~for good news from a distant friend
~for a new, low-risk supplement to try to increase my bone density
~for blood pressure on the decrease
(from the gratitude list, #801-19)


Giving thanks to God our Father with the community at Ann's...

Elegy for a Friend

for Steinway, 10/22/2009

Steinway Leone Moore (5/1/1993-6/22/2011)

Four months ago you left me.

The memories of the pain we lived,

Those last shadow-vale days,

Remain as fresh as this morning’s paper cut.

Your intoxicating, dream-sweet scent

Has all but faded

From last pillow

Left unwashed,

Unsoiled by death’s indignities.

How I longed,

In those months of fading light,

To distill your fragrant essence—

Favorite anodyne—

In a bottle

Against emptiness to come,

But the only elixir left me now

Is my own tears,

Distilled in Another’s bottle,

Against the Day they all

Are wiped away,

For what purpose

I know not yet,

But set my face

Toward trust.

Soon the only remnant

Of your tangibility,

Relics of sixteen-year

Habits of the heart,

Will be your small casket

Of ashes, fur clipped

From final bath,

A lost tooth,

Drawer of wee sweaters,

Cast-off toys,

Photographs,

Memories

All too likely, too, to fade—

Merciful agony—

Like your scent

On this last cushion.



If this finds you grieving today, the keen sharpness of fresh grief, in my experience, does dull in time. I do not promise it departs, but the intensity does soften a bit so one can move forward again. The second anniversary of Steinway's death was much better than the first, which was somewhat better than the four-month mark described in the poem above.


More importantly, the grief itself opens the way to know our Lord in a deeper way as the Holy Spirit Jesus promised in John 14-16 comes alongside us and the Father of mercies comforts our afflictions so that we in turn are better able to comfort others (2 Corinthians 1). Ultimately, comfort is not a thing or a feeling but a Person, the Lord God Himself indwelling His children. May this loving Lord make His comfort real in your experience as He has in mine.

Grief resources I have found helpful in various losses:
GriefShare e-mail service (free, no collateral spam)
Rain on Me book, by Holley Gerth (40-day devotional)
A Grief Observed by C. S. Lewis
God in the Dark: Through Grief and Beyond, Fourth Edition by Luci Shaw


If you seem to be stuck in your grief and it is not getting better at all with time, please know there is no shame in seeking help from a guide equipped to provide it. In her book listed above, Holley Gerth recommends this site for information and referrals: http://ecounseling.com/homes

The Dog Who Helped Me Become Real

"Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand" (The Skin Horse, from The Velveteen Rabbit).

The summer of 1993 marked the middle of the most difficult season of my life to that point. Two years prior, a difficult decision I believed to be right and obedient had proved even more costly than I had imagined. Some of the cost was inherent to the decision, but I no doubt increased it by my lack of skills, maturity, and courage to handle the ensuing conflicts.
I sought comfort for my grief and shame in food, sleep, Scripture, spiritual reading, and desperate prayer (sometimes in that order), even while trying to reassemble the shattered dreams with duct tape and ingenuity.

By that summer, I was almost out of duct tape and ideas, and I decided with my parents' support that the next step was to buy a dog. At the time I was living in my old room at their house, no longer enrolled in college, and working at temporary clerical jobs and babysitting, yet somehow it seemed perfectly reasonable to spend more than a week's wages on a purebred Lhasa Apso. A male one, to breed with my sister's dog, Muffin.

After weeks of scanning classified advertisements and making phone calls from the breakroom at lunch, just before July Fourth we found a good prospect in Oak Cliff, a good drive southwest of us. The one snag was that I already had a childcare commitment after work that night, there were only two males in the litter, and we had learned from experience that the males sold most quickly.

My kind and longsuffering parents agreed to drive out to the breeder's house with check in hand, examine the candidates, and act on my behalf.

The babysitting evening is a blur in my memory, as all I could think about was whether my parents were meeting and picking up my dog. When I arrived back home, the lights were still on and the kitchen was full of my parents, youngest sister, her dog, and a tiny brown ball of fur who fit in my two hands.

First meeting 

He nestled in my lap immediately, and I was so smitten I hardly even minded the flea bites. After much deliberation, I named him Steinway.

For sixteen years, he was my most constant creaturely companion. Friends came and went; my sisters moved into their own places and one married; I met and married Allen and exchanged my parents' roof for his; but Steinway loved me without reserve or qualification through it all. He had no job to take him away during the day or move him to another city, no competing interests except the squirrels on the lawn or the occasional Nylabone.

Story time, ca 2002

From him I learned the power of presence, the importance of "with." As I put aside the salvage attempts and sat among the shards, he let me cry into his fur and didn't even seem to mind. He curled up on the dining room chair next to mine, whether I was up at 4 am or midnight studying. When I left, he waited for me at the front window or atop the back of the sofa, from which perch he could see both entrances. When illness woke me in the night, he found me and kept me company, and I did the same for him. He was my Velcro dog, sticking by me through whatever came. Throughout his life he made visible to me in an almost sacramental way the invisible, constant, loving presence of Christ.

I did not always love him wisely, but I hope I loved him well. His companionship and puppy needs were a gift from God to turn my focus outward again, and God brought his affection to begin to heal my hurting heart and give me many years of joy before his departure broke it again. The memory of his fur and weight is still imprinted on my arms.

He helped me live through the brokenness, rubbed off some of my sharp edges, and taught me that Real is more beautiful than "carefully kept." For sixteen years we loved the fur off each other; because of Steinway I am that much closer to Real.

Steinway Leone Moore (May 1, 1993-June 22, 2009)

Salute to Somo

Somo (2002?-May 27, 2008)

This week we've been talking more than usual about Somo*, Ebony's predecessor as prince of the sofa. Somo joined our family in a flurry of providential circumstances on Memorial Day weekend 2004, and he passed away the day after Memorial Day in 2008.

He's also been on our mind because he was terrified of storms, of which we've had several. If a thunderstorm came when he was home alone with his older brother Steinway, he would shred the carpet down to the linoleum beneath.  We tried gating him in the tiled bathroom, but in the absence of carpet he shredded any paper product within reach.  Consequently, one of us made sure to be home if storms were predicted.

If storms came through when we were home, he would pace and pant and climb up us and the furniture to get to higher ground. When this happened in the middle of the night, one of us would get up with him so the other one could sleep without a small dog standing on his face trying to scale the wall. The maternal bounce-and-walk comfort trick was of no avail.  Finally we discovered that leashing him so he could pace without doing himself harm worked pretty well.  I slept many nights in a sleeping bag on the floor with the leash in my hand and him pacing all around me.

Ordinarily, however, Somo was our rugged individualist. He rarely met a boundary he didn't cross, and he loved, loved, loved to dig, to the point we had to wonder whether some terrier was mixed in with his Lhasa Apso heritage. He dug to bury his wooly bone in the flower bed, and once he dug under the fence to play with the chihuahua next door.  He accomplished the latter feat so quickly that my first inkling was the neighbor knocking at the door holding a muddy dog as far away from herself as possible.

He was a smart dog, too. Once he crawled on his belly through the 6" space under our sofa to steal a bone literally from behind the back of his older brother. Steinway never did figure out where that bone went.

Somo and Steinway together

Besides thunderstorms, off-leash dogs were Somo's other nemeses.  We encountered a surprising number of these on our walks. On one occasion we were walking up a street across from the local elementary school.  As we passed one house, the homeowner opened her door to bring in the paper. Suddenly, her mastiff flew past her like a left tackle blitzing the quarterback. Except he was blitzing us. (Have I mentioned Somo was 19 pounds, tops, and I'm just over five feet tall? We were both in the wrong weight class for this fight.)

Never good at reacting quickly or well in a crisis, my only thought was to hold on to the leash because if we ran he'd chase us. And not to make eye contact. And surely the owner would restrain her dog any second. Poor Somo, however, decided he'd take his chances and run. He was smart enough that he probably recognized this particular dog would chase us even if we didn't flee.

So there we are:  me at the center of the merry-go-round, holding onto the leash for dear life with one hand and trying to reach Somo with the other hand; Somo running in circles around me trying to escape but limited to the radius of the leash; and this giant of a dog running in circles behind him and gaining ground. It was like living the folk story about Sambo, only this tiger was not turning into butter.

The situation was desperate when, at the same instant, the mastiff's owner grabbed his collar and Somo escaped his. I stood for a moment, taking in the empty red collar at the end of my leash, and then took off running in the direction Somo had gone.

Back and forth I went down all the streets nearby.  I waved down oncoming cars to ask if they'd seen a small white dog running for his life. When I could not walk any farther, I turned for home and called my husband to say I'd lost his dog but would head back out in the car to keep looking for him. By the time I finished explaining, I noticed a small white bundle on our doorstep.

Somo had already gone home.

A favorite nesting spot, Somo's last Christmas

Dear Crumbles, if midnight storms have you panicked, may you know in experience the truth that your Master is near to all who call upon Him (Psalm 145:18). When enemies too big to defeat are pursuing you and everything seems to spell disaster, may you find the grace and presence of mind to run home to your Father. He is big enough for whatever you face today. When memories and stories bubble up in your hearts, may you also find kind friends willing to listen or read what you have to share. I'm grateful for you.

*Swahili for confidant or intimate friend

Although I'm a few days late with this, life with my dogs has been a source of many, many "Playdates with God." You may read others' perspectives at Laura's place, The Wellspring.