Odd thoughts on a sad sabbath...

We led our old dog, Casey, to his final good-bye this afternoon.  It was right that he still had enough presence and dignity to walk through the door of the vet to his death.  He was always a proud dog.  There's been a lot of weeping and sadness in our house for the past week and it deepened as I carried him to the car - and as Di led him into the waiting room.  And then after a lot more tears - and some stories about Casey's life - the gentle doctor gave our old buddy two injections and Casey, as if in slow motion, relaxed and gave up the ghost. Within a moment, he was without pain but gone from us, too.

We sat with him for a few silent moments.  After a few more stories, we cried and hugged him - shared a blessing or two - and felt it was time to say our final good-bye.  More tears and sobbing followed in the car and I trust they will until this season of grieving is complete.  At home, Lucie hugged us and snuggled on the sofa before running to find a used tissue to devour.  In a short time we're going to a Mexican eatery in honor of Casey the Desert Dog:  we're calling it Casey's Retirement Party. 

Three odd thoughts are wandering through my head:

+  All morning I've been thinking of two passages of scripture.  "We do not grieve as those without hope." (I Thessalonians 4: 13-18)  One of my colleagues spoke these words to me after my sister's death this summer.  And while I know the great apostle was speaking about people of faith, I choose to believe that all who live and die in love are of the Lord - especially those without sin like animals.  In this, although very much in the Reformed tradition, I am a Franciscan at heart.

+ The other passage is from Revelations 21: "God himself will be with them; he will wipe every tear from their eyes. Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away."  This, too, was meant for believers - and I hold that truth dearly - but watching Casey slip quietly into death I couldn't help but sense that for him all mourning, crying, death and pain were no more for the former things had, indeed, passed away.

+ And then this totally random notion after watching two young guitar players at our jazz gig last night.  Both are talented young players:  one is VERY practiced, the other more laid back; one is being pushed obsessively to succeed by his father, the other comes from a family that is more chill; one seems driven, the other appears to be having fun.  Given the shortness of life - human, winged, swimming or four-legged - I wanted to say:  be gentle with your, kid, man and let him be a child - back the f***off - and let the guy find his own groove.  But I didn't.  This Lent I'm trying to practice shutting up and letting people find things out on their own - but it still broke my heart.

So these are broken-hearted times... and I give thanks for the love that leads to this type of brokenness.