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Time after time

When I was two years old, my dad bought a dachshund from a neighbor whose dog had a litter. We welcomed him into the family and named him Baron.

Baron was a fat weiner dog with a red coat and a crooked tail. With tiny legs and a long body, he had only managed to squeeze his sausage body and half his tail through a closing door. The unfortunate event left a knot on his tail, which jutted off to the side about halfway down. It made a funny-looking dog even funnier, but he never seemed to mind.

Dad says Baron was the best watchdog we ever had. Baron took his job protecting us seriously. He courageously barked and growled whenever he perceived a menacing threat. Dad loved that about him. I was too young to care about such things.

I did know that Baron was my buddy. Our neighborhood didn’t have a lot of kids in it, but he was always by my side whenever I went outside to play. He would bound joyfully through the tall grass chasing after me, and we would sit down together and catch our breath while we watched clouds blow across the sky.

I was six years old when he began to have back problems. He was clearly in pain, and I worried about my partner. Ultimately, he required surgery on a damaged spinal disk, but it didn’t go well.

Baron was scared and confused after his procedure. Instead of regaining mobility, his rear legs became paralyzed. Mom set aside our rule against having animals in the house so that he could recover in a comfortable place. He sat on his mat looking at us with his big, mournful, hound-dog eyes, hoping we would somehow help him.

I was young, but old enough to understand that Baron was very sick. That night, I slept on the floor so that I could be with him. I unzipped my sleeping bag all the way to the bottom and helped him get cozy by my feet. Then I flipped the top half over both of us. He liked to be covered up by blankets.

I wanted so badly for God to make him better, but morning found him whimpering with no improvement. Dad watched him hopefully for a few days, thinking maybe some swelling would go down or a miracle would occur.

I continued to sleep on the floor with him, stroking his back and rubbing our noses together. He would lick my face while I told him that he was a good dog. He was thankful that I watched over him, just like he had done for me the past four years.

Eventually, the greatest mercy required us to release him from his misery. Dad returned from the vet alone and sad. For the first of many times to come, my heart was broken. I missed my loyal friend for a long time and still have a soft spot for weiner dogs.

That memory had faded into the distant past until it unexpectedly resurfaced when my mom passed away. It is now keeping company with other memories of those torn unwillingly from my life. Losing loved ones is not like most hardships, which get easier through repetition. Each new loss sends us back through the same recovery process.

I miss my mom but know that I will see her again one day. I am thankful for that. However, one day isn’t the same as today.

I remember how she used to tell me, “You should write a book.” She loved to hear me tell stories to her. However, by the time I had written early drafts of a few chapters of Build Neighbors, her dementia had progressed significantly.

I took her to the lake one sunny morning to read to her from what I had written so far. She listened quietly and smiled as she watched the waves lapping the shore in front of us. After reading three or four short chapters to her, I set my notes down and asked her if she wanted to go home. She said, “I think so.” I could tell that the part of her that had longed for me to become a storyteller wasn’t with us anymore.

We will be together again, but I would give anything to be able to call her after each new blog post and ask what she thought. Knowing we can talk about them one day isn’t the same as experiencing it together now, and I miss her every time I publish something.

I loved listening to her laugh and hearing her appreciation of God’s voice in our lives. We can’t share those moments as they happen now. I feel the sadness of a young child realizing his dog wasn’t going to come home again.

People ask if the various members of our family are doing OK. Their implied hope is that we can put mom’s death behind us and move on. Too often, I fear that we try to skip past important parts of our lives because they are unpleasant.

My hope isn’t to get past these feelings, but that I can find peace in them. I need tranquility during hard times because they will keep coming.

In Ecclesiastes, Solomon bemoans the repetition of life. Whatever we do, the cycle continues. Just like the cold of winter will come again, so will hardships. I am encouraged by his advice on finding contentment in each season, not merely extending the easy times.

In his sermon this past Sunday, our pastor said that Jesus is our savior every day. On my hardest days when I am beat down, I am thankful that he will lift me up and walk with me. Adversity disciplines us while serenity provides rest – both are needed to transform our souls.

Loss creates an appreciation for what I have been given. Loneliness causes me to reach out in fellowship. Remembering what was special in someone who is gone allows me to carry their flame forward. Allowing Jesus to soothe my pain encourages me to share his love with the world.

The hardest part of losing someone you love is knowing that it will happen again. There is no need to hide from the pain though. Time after time, He will be there.

Jimmy McAfee