I have this dog...

No matter what you've done this far,

He's still chasing your broken heart,

He's never gonna leave you alone.

"Leave You Alone", Tenth Avenue North

I have this dog that lives with me.  I am always very careful to point out -- she lives with me, but I don't have a dog.  Puppy (I call her that even though she is 10 years old) and I are both victims of the same con, perpetrated by my youngest child.

At Christmas time, my daughter came home for a few days, bringing Puppy with her.  And Puppy has been here ever since.  Just recently I found out that my daughter adopted another dog, a 3 month old puppy from a shelter.  What??  Yep, I'm afraid that Puppy and I have been had.  I've texted my daughter, but she's ignoring me.  So here we sit, me and Puppy.  I'm stuck with her, and she's stuck with me.

I never wanted a dog.  But Puppy has lived with me the majority of her 10 furry years.  She joined our family in 2003 after my husband and I decided to give in to the pleading of our youngest, and give her the desire of her heart.  Earlier this year, my daughter, now finished with college, finally took Puppy to live at her house.  I was happy to have her gone.  Don't get me wrong, if you have to have a dog, Puppy is about as good as they get.  She's small, about 7 pounds.  She does not shed.  She never chews on things or destroys anything.  She didn't even do that when she was a puppy.  I can sit the groceries on the floor, and she will not bother them.  She's very submissive, very low maintenance.  She doesn't jump up on people, although that's pretty hard to execute when you are her size.  She's just a cute little white fluffball.  But I'm just not a dog person.  Never have been, never will be.  I don't enjoy sitting and petting her.  If she tries to lick me, I push her away.  I don't let her sleep on my bed because she bugs me.  I have no interest in walking her or playing with her.  And I am not a homebody.  I am on the run a lot, and I don't like being tied down by the obligation of having to go home and let the dog out.  I don't like that I can't go someplace overnight because I have this little canine responsibility that has to be taken care of.

Tonight I gave Puppy a both.  I HATE doing this, but she desperately needed it.  She has white hair that grows long, and it gets dirty, especially around her nose, mouth, and eyes, and other, well, parts....  Giving her a bath repulses me, for two reasons.  When she gets wet, she has a distinctive wet dog smell, and it reminds me of the smell of the feathers on the dirty, dead chickens my sister and I used to have to pluck growing up on the farm.  Not one of my favorite memories, to say the least.  And then the crusty stuff that forms in her fur around her eyes just plain grosses me out.  It literally makes me want to gag when I clean that stuff. It's stuck in her fur, and I have to cut it out, or scrape it out painstakingly with my fingernails.  Yuck! 

But still, I do this.  I'm not sure I can totally articulate why.  Partly it's me feeling a sense of duty, of needing to do the right thing.  It's also that I feel a certain compassion for this little dog.  She didn't ask for any of this.  Life just happened to her, and none of it is anything she can control.  I figure she deserves to be taken care of, like any other living thing.  Maybe I feel a certain kinship with her, being left behind in favor of a cute little puppy.

I began thinking that me giving Puppy a bath is a bit of a metaphor for the relationship God has with us.  The things we do to ourselves, and with our lives must really gross him out sometimes.  But He still picks us up, and cleans us up anyway.  Surely it makes Him want to gag at times, the messes He has to clean up in our lives.  But he never gives up.

From my heart,
Joni

(Update:  This was written some time ago.  You will be pleased to know that Puppy is now living the good life with my other dog-loving daughter and her husband, who happily pet her, let her lick them,  bathe her and love her!)

Strong In the Broken Places

Last night I went out to get some dinner and do some shopping.  I was by myself, and I stopped in to Qdoba to get their nachos.  I often eat alone, and usually I will pick up food from a restaurant and take it home to eat.  But this time I dined in.  I got my food and sat down at a table to eat. 

It was a gorgeous summer evening, and the restaurant was practically empty.  I picked out a table in an empty section and sat down.  I was able to spend a few minutes in quiet, reflecting on life, eating my brown rice, black beans and pico de gallo with just a bit of queso.  It struck me that this was nice, even enjoyable .  I felt grateful for the life I have, sitting there on a beautiful summer evening, enjoying a delicious meal, having money to spend, being healthy.  A couple of years ago, I would have found this same situation very uncomfortable.  It would have seemed like a highlighting of my single status, and I would have felt conspicuous and pathetic.  But I realized I really did not have any of those feelings.  I was surprised at this discovery, and I thought to myself "strong in the broken places".  

Music is something I love, that really resonates with me.  Life needs a soundtrack, so I give it one.  I tend to fixate on a certain musician, or CD, and play that music over and over as I drive around in my car, and on my Shuffle when I walk.  My daughters might describe it as ad nauseum.  (If overexposure to Amy Grant, Petra and White Heart at a young age is dangerous, my girls are doomed.)  So hearing music often takes me back to a certain time in my life.  One of those songs from the dark days of my divorce, "Faith Enough" by Jars of Clay, assured me that:

It's just enough to be strong in the broken places...

But back then, I wondered if I would ever get there.  People told me how strong I was.  But I was not.  I was broken and scared and tired and hurting.  And I was sick of hearing how strong I was.

For me, healing from divorce is a very slow process.  I will never be the person I was before, and there will always be scars.  I have learned that I have a very, very hard time with letting go.  And my journey isn't over yet.  But God is using the therapeutic benefits of time and people with loving hearts and hands to heal me.  Bad moments still come, but they come much less often these days.  And they are usually just that -- moments.  I used to cry so much I must surely have suffered from chronic dehydration.  I rarely cry anymore. And often I find that I am content, and at peace.  And just plain happy.

So this is a message of hope, for those who are struggling to keep their mouth and nose above the water of despair just to breathe -- there is healing.  You will survive, and eventually, you will do more than that.  You will have moments where you realize that you are peaceful, content, and maybe even happy.  In time you will have days like that too.  You will heal.  And be strong again.  And it's enough.

From my heart,

Joni