Holy Ground

I've never seen anything

So astonishingly beautiful

As your radiant face

Worshiping

Face down 

Bowing in utter submission

Hands open

In complete trust

Tears stream down puffy cheeks

(Mine, not yours)

Little drops finding well-worn rivulets

Of familiar ground 

But really, just barely

This is just barely familiar 

Barely similar

You are laboring there.

In labor.

Deep breaths

Guttural groans

Waves of agonizing pain

Like I did with my babies

The ones who breathed

And cried

And pinked up in the end

This is no passing of tissue

And grieving a lost lifetime 

Imagined for a few weeks

(Which is its own deep, real loss.

Don’t get me wrong.

I sent five lost loves on ahead of me

In that way. 

Each one loved.

And released 

With a name

And many tears.)

But this.

This is different.

Oh, my precious daughter 

You have prepared for

Bought clothes for 

Rearranged life for 

A new life for all of you

Now a family of three

Heart breaking,

You free fall in terror

And trust

Into your Father’s strong arms

Where Deaniebaby already is

You are closer to both now

Than ever

In this sacred space 

© 2025 Laurie Sitterding

The Last Time

The last time I held your hand

Could have been today

Had I been brave enough 

to reach out

and feel the cold.

 

But I wasn’t

And now you’re gone

 

Were they careful when they carried you away?

Respectful?

Was there honor and reverence at the privilege

Of bearing the bones

Of so great a man

On his one last journey?

One last car ride.

One final trip. 

 

From my quiet corner

I watched the birth kids hold

the cold hand.

And kiss the cold, yellowed brow.

And brush the full head of magnificent hair.

One last time.

One last sob.

One more deep, guttural groan of grief. 

 

I stood silent in the corner

Willing myself to watch in wonder

In spite of your breathless chest 

And your ever-smiling eyes 

Shut tight.

No furrow in the 90-year brow

At all

Anymore 

 

(What do you now know that we don’t?)

 

I, the one who came to this family late.

Taking his name… your name.

 

In law.

What a phrase.

So transactional.

It could never capture what it is to love a man

And then be invited into his family.

Loved like a daughter.

But not quite.

 

Of course, not quite

the same.

Not really the same at all

as the one who is bone of your bones.

Flesh of your flesh.

The perfect reflection of the perfect one you chose 

all those years ago.

Who departed all those years ago

And left you with her mirror image 

growing up 

before your eyes.

 

You loved me the best you could

As the one who stole your son

Then made him a father

And you a grandfather

And then a great-grandfather

 

I loved you deeply.

Fiercely.

And with not a little frustration, at times.

Just like you loved me.

 

I wanted the last time I had held your hand 

to be when it was warm.

Gnarled, curled fingers

Wrapped around mine

Squeezing a thank you you could no longer speak 

 

That’s the hand I will remember. 

 

And the one that reached out into the air

Grasping for things unseen.

Trapped between two worlds 

And ready to go 

 

I don’t know who I was that day

When you reached out and buried your hand in her hair

And caressed her head with such tenderness

But I will remember that hand 

Buried against my cheek

And weep 

© 2024 Laurie Sitterding

/////////////////////////////////

I process things in poetry. Always have. The heavier the thing, the stronger the drive to take to stanzas and verse. 

For the last 11 weeks we have been on a rollercoaster ride with our dear Opa, through two big falls, two brain bleeds, one brain surgery, lots of hard work and physical therapy, lots of wishes to leave this earth and go home to be with the Lord. It’s been exhausting to lose this summer (entirely—like I didn’t even notice it pass, because it was filled with working and visiting Opa, and little else). 

The details of the journey are unimportant, but the final end is that he passed into eternal glory yesterday, 11 weeks to the day after the first of two falls. I will miss him every day of my life until the end of it. He was a constant fixture and presence of wisdom and wry humor and smiling eyes and a deep, gruff voice that greeted me always with “Moooorrrgen,” whatever the time of day. I am just beginning to process what it means that he isn’t here, though I have imagined the day for over a decade, since his beloved wife departed earth ahead of him, and far too soon. Indeed, the Smiling Eyes have joined the Delightful Laugh on streets of gold. In fields of green. By quiet streams.

This is the poem I wrote, using this month's writing prompt for Poets Online—to use the phrase "the last time" in some way. It was chosen for publication. I wonder if Opa would have been proud... or maybe just a little bit embarrassed. 

Rest well, fine sir. I miss you every single day. I know I will see you soon... for "what are days and weeks and months and years," really?

Even on This Train Track

How do I hear a whisper in the midst of all this noise?

Staying home, and still they find me.

Stuck inside, and yet they penetrate the quarantine walls.

No invitation necessary.

No welcome needed.

Not even an open door

(Or a tightly closed one)

They're just here.

In my mind.

On my screen.

In my heart.

In these walls.

Where is the still, small voice?

I awaken from fleeting sleep and

(Blessed, elusive sleep)

stumble into the bathroom.

In a daze

And a haze.

For just one blessed second

Before the train rounds the corner and

Blows its awful whistle

Of reminder.

For one brief, transient moment

I walk in a glorious sea of forgetfulness

Before that relentless train

Smacks into my pummeled soul once again

I look across the hallway

And I see you there

Seated

Battling a difficult math problem

Or maybe just trying to muster the will

To do an easy one

Their way.

No matter.

Just as it comes into focus

The image is gone.

Like you.

And I can't get you back.

How can you be gone?

Your beautiful self

Your beautiful smile

Your gifted eye

Your clever retort

Your very being

Vanished and irrecoverable

I feel the tears spring to my eyes

And quickly fill them to overflowing

Again.

Tears trickling down familiar lines

I am weeping again.

Again.

I fight the urge to bury this pain

Deep

Where it can't hurt me

(Yeah, right)

Where it can't find me

(Hello again)

The grinning, terrifying voice

Of the Accuser

Haunts me

I will not hide.

You prepare a table right before me

In the presence of my Enemy.

This grief

This blame

This guilt

This threatened hopelessness

It is here again.

Again.

I turn to face it

Embrace it

Bring it to Your loving hand

I will fear no evil

No Evil

Even in this Valley

Of the Shadow

Of Death

I will walk through

("The only way out is through")

And find peace

Goodbye, dear Joshua.

Snuggle in.

Your Father is glad to have you Home

The Shattering of That Beautiful Glass

I can't find any words.

Usually the poems write themselves

In the wake of the pain

Or the joy

Or the confusion

Or the wonder

And the mist

And the tears

And the laughter

And the longing

Swirl and pour onto the page like, like

Like what?

Like that damn river you posted on your Instagram

The page we didn't even know about

Until you were gone.

You are gone.

I can't believe you are gone.

For a moment I'm convinced 

I can see it now.

Should have seen it.

Should have known.

It's hazy

But clear

Clear as mud.

Maybe made up.

Maybe the product of a grief-strained mind

And a broken heart

Awake for more hours than makes sense

Leaving me unable to make sense

Out of senseless things

And this is senseless.

Infuriating.

Excruciating.

Heartbreaking.

Unreal.

I cannot make my brain believe it

Or my heart receive it

Or any part of me accept it as so.

This cannot be so.

I try to ignore the little glimmers

On the Instagram page.

The one you hid from us.

I close my tear-stained eyes.

I whisper to myself

It's just the artistic kid

With the camera and the good eye

Capturing the beauty of a risky moment

You stare down the gaze into swirling waters

You prance on the ledge of the narrow bridge

"I want to go back" 

and "Take me with you"

and "Don't say you were there for me

when I've been walking alone

my whole life"

"Don't slip under the surface"

You capture the shattering of that beautiful glassy ice

And I can't believe the sound of it.

It plays over and over in my mind.

The drop that destroys

Leaving us shattered

"You're going to be alright, I promise"

Only we're not.

We're not alright.

Staring down the chasm of grief

I reach into my memories

For your sunny self

Full of love

And joy

And jokes

Josh joshing

I swallow hard

Past the lump in my throat

And choke down the tears that try to come again

This.

Can.

Not.

Be.

True.

But it is.

And I cannot wrap my brain around it.

Cannot make my heart conform

To this particular truth

I know that you are finally held

In the arms of your loving Father

The true One

The One who never left you

Or forsook you

Even in the final moments

Of blinding pain

And poor judgement

Those moments do not define you.

That one choice is not the totality of your life.

You are freed from the noose

Of a horrible choice

Into the arms of your Savior

Who held you all along

And holds you still

Now whole, and healed

Forgive us for our part in your pain.

Forgive us for the selfish choices we made.

Forgive us for the ways we did not see.

Forgive us, Josh.

Forgive us, Lord.

Just So

Nobody moves anything anymore.

It all stays put.

Just so.

Exactly where I thought I wanted it

Back when I didn't know better

Back when little fingers touched everything

Took everything

Or it just went walking

Somewhere

Anywhere but where it goes

We built these trains

And laid the track

Of this life

One little piece at a time

Little locomotives

And steam engines

To run away with my heart.

Or maybe just over it.

Leave it gasping, frantic

For just one screw

Out of place.

Something.

Anything

To step on.

Anyone

Underfoot

If these floors could have told me, they would have

If these walls could have warned me, I'd have known

That every little block

And shoe

And piece of everything

Would one day stay put.

Just so.

We built these engines that ride off the rails

And carry a piece of my soul

On the way to get a cheeseburger

In a new town

With a new best lady

I found my tweezers just the other day.

How I wish to God they were still missing

Instead of you

© 2019 Laurie Sitterding

Words of Expectant Hope

Almost 25 years ago, a couple knocked on our door—and the doors of our hearts—with a box of warm Kristy Kreme doughnuts and an announcement that we were going to be fast friends. Three days ago, I held this dear friend’s hand for the last time. I wasn't ready to say goodbye.

Our friendship over the years was complicated and complex... deep, and fierce, and fragile at times. We were like family. We loved, and served, and forgave each other, through much of life’s struggle and fear and joy and pain. At times, we hurt each other deeply. There was judgment, and misunderstanding, and betrayal, and anger. But there was also faithfulness, and commitment, and a steadfast clinging to the pursuit of unity in Christ. We grew up together. We matured together. We knew each other through every iteration of pride and judgment and arrogance, and yet we somehow made a way to find the best in each other and presume a heart of good will from each other. We served one another, at times selflessly and without thanks, and in the end we found that none was needed... not really.

Since that day many years ago when my friend shared with us that she may have found a lump in her breast, I have prayed for her body, and her family, and her spirit. When she needed to turn the chairs inward and fight this battle without me for a time, I prayed. And trusted. And served. And waited. Restoration and reconciliation—though incomplete this side of heaven—are beautiful to behold, and even more beautiful to live.

This valiant warrior was never more lovely to me than the day I took the clippers to her beautiful raven hair, watching it fall to the ground in waves, like my tears. She is the bravest woman I have ever known, battling this scourge that sought to defeat her body for so many long, painful, wearying years.

I have been preparing my heart for some time that she might be called to leave us some day way too early, even as I desperately hoped that our faithful God—whom I knew could—would choose to heal her. She knew it, too, and hoped it to the bitter end, even as she gave us all the strength to trust along with her that He does all things well.

Even on the day that He called her home to be with Him—her body struggling to breathe and her mind no longer able to grasp our presence with her—she called upon the name of her faithful God to help her. I want faith like that, like my dear friend Darla’s... faith that is so deeply woven into my very being that it clings to my soul and spirit, even as conscious thought and communication have failed... and that erupts from my lips in words of dependence and expectant hope and trust, when all other words have been said. "Help me. God, help me."

My dear friend, I am so grateful that I got to spend those several hours with you just before He called you home. It was a blessing—to me—to speak to you, even though I wasn't necessarily sure that you could hear me or know what I was saying. I do believe our human spirits perceive, in some sort of awareness and communion and fellowship... and that our heavenly spirits know and understand things that our conscious minds can no longer grasp. I'm so glad I got to tell you one last time what a good wife you were, what a good mom. To hold your hand and touch your arm and stroke your beautiful hair. To thank you for your faithful friendship. To assure you that we would take care of Ken and the kids. To tell you that it was safe for you to go. That you had fought such a brave, good fight... that you were almost home. To quote to you the 23rd Psalm... which would have seemed trite had the words not felt so perfectly right and true. Those are the words He gave me, so those are the words I gave you. The Lord is my Shepherd. Green pastures. Still waters. The valley of the shadow of death. I will not fear. Thou art with me. Guides my path. A table before me. Goodness and lovingkindness. I will dwell in the house of the Lord. Forever and ever.

It was a privilege and an honor to share those sacred moments alone with you, and then to witness your sweet Kathryn and your precious Ken as they reached out to hold your hand or touch your arm in your restlessness—"I'm here, my sweetheart. What do you need, my love? I'm right here"—and to see you settle down, comforted and quieted.

"This is part of the deal," Ken had told me. "This is what we sign up for, on our wedding day. 'Till death do us part.' It's hidden there, in plain sight, right in our wedding vows." I witnessed the most sacred of things in that room that day... the palpable love of a man for his wife—flawed and human, yes, but sacred and powerful and astonishing... wild, and fierce, and rearing its head to be sure it was known and perceived until the very last breath.

Well done, good and faithful one. So very well done!

I am so glad that you are now in heaven, dear Darla, where there is no pain or sorrow or cancer. I wish I could have loved you better. I wasn't ready to be finished learning to love you well. I miss you. The world is less beautiful without you in it. Your beautiful voice is missing as I worship. But I know that you are now “absent from the body and at home with the Lord,” and I can only imagine the glories in which you now live. And from which you now sing.

I look forward to our reunion in heaven, where there are no tears or pain or ability to misunderstand or hurt one another ever again. So go ride your horse in the horse corner of heaven, my sweet friend. I'll see you soon...

Sleep in Heavenly Peace

I attended a funeral today. There were still decorative banners hanging at the front of the church... A beautiful silhouette depiction of the nativity—parents and Child—on one side of the church, and another of the traveling wise men on the other. You can picture them in your mind, I'm sure, along with the lovely evergreen tree laden with Crismon ornaments. I was struck by how out of place the urn seemed, carefully placed on the table, front and center, amid all that festive Christmas pageantry.

But then it occurred to me.

This is ultimately what Christmas is all about. In the end, the incarnation of God into a little Babe—who really was born, and lived, and died, and was risen from the dead—truly is the whole point.

We are lost in our sins, desperately in need of a Savior. Enter Jesus, stage left. Born of a virgin. In a stable. Lauded only by shepherds, the outcasts of their society.

And so all my "Christmas celebrating" was interrupted by a funeral. My dear friend's Christmas celebrating was interrupted by a terrible accident, and her son was taken away, just like that.

Sometimes it's all joy and pageantry and celebration. 
The wedding. 
The birth. 
The holiday du jour. 

This time it was Christmas. 
Christmas Eve, to be exact. 
A Son being given
To save the world from their sins,
Or something like that. 

A little too much celebration. 
Libations abounding. 
Lack of judgement. 
Again. 
Overconsumption. 
Again. 

A decision to walk home
Is always a better choice. 
A safer choice, 
At least according to MADD. 

But not this time. 
Not this day. 
Not this Eve, when Son is given.
And son is taken. 
In one step off the curb
At the wrong moment. 

And, you know, the thing is
That all is not calm. 
And all is not bright. 
And no one is sleeping tonight. 

How do we find that heavenly peace
In the midst of something like this?
When we want to run
And hide
And scream
And cry. 
And we do, until there's nothing left to give. 

And in that brokenness, we find the point. 
Find the place of emptiness that can be filled, 
For a full cup can hold nothing.
Can receive nothing
But an empty one knows its need
And a broken one, even more so. 

I don't really love broken and empty. I don't like crying until I can't breathe and my eyes are swollen shut. I don't want pain and grief and a perpetual knot in my stomach and a perpetual lump in my throat. But these are the things of life sometimes. This is reality. Sometimes it isn't all calm and bright. And thank God He meets us in those moments! Thank God He came for moments such as these.

----------
*Entry 4, The 12 Days of Christmas Blog Challenge
The title is a line from the Christmas carol "Silent Night" by Franz Gruber.

No More Let Sins and Sorrows Grow

1. No more let sins and sorrows grow,
   Nor thorns infest the ground;
   He comes to make His blessings flow
   Far as the curse is found,
   Far as the curse is found,
   Far as, far as, the curse is found.
2. Sometimes, sorrows are great and refuse to stop growing. Sometimes, the circumstances in our lives seem like anything but blessings. The curse is real, and sometimes it rears its ugly head, whether we're trying to celebrate or not. This is one of those Christmases. 
3. Today, a dear friend of mine had to remove her adult son—struck by a car last night, on Christmas Eve—from life support. He will not survive the day, at least not in this world. A mother, and a wife, and two sons, and many other friends and family members are grieving today for this one they love. Never mind that it's Christmas. 
4. A neighbor of mine buried her husband last weekend on what would have been their 47th wedding anniversary. He had fallen from the roof while hanging Christmas lights, landing in such a way on the driveway below that he sustained a fatal head injury. He never regained consciousness enough to communicate his love and goodbyes. Never mind that it's Christmas. 
5. My pastor and his wife are navigating through the tricky waters of celebrating the family's first Christmas without their son and brother, Mark, who was tragically murdered last May in a random shooting as he drove home from attending his high school's graduation ceremony. Her thoughts about what that's like are poignant and real and vulnerable and honest and encouraging and fiercely beautiful, in an awful sort of way. Never mind that it's Christmas. 
6. This year was a year of tears for me. I attended far too many funerals... some for dear ones who should have had a lifetime ahead of them... some for those who lived long lives, rich and full, but who are still so sorely missed. 
7. Never mind that it's Christmas. 
8. As I've moved through this holiday season—grieving, and praying for many other dear ones who are also grieving—it's been a daily exercise to seek joy. It's been work to move past my own confusion and pain and to find the Lord in all of it. Do I really believe that He's good, all the time? Do I really believe that He's sovereign? Do I really trust Him, in the middle of all this pain?

"Brothers, we do not want you to be ignorant about those who fall asleep, or to grieve like the rest of men, who have no hope. We believe that Jesus died and rose again and so we believe that God will bring with Jesus those who have fallen asleep in him. According to the Lord’s own word, we tell you that we who are still alive, who are left till the coming of the Lord, will certainly not precede those who have fallen asleep. For the Lord himself will come down from heaven, with a loud command, with the voice of the archangel and with the trumpet call of God, and the dead in Christ will rise first. After that, we who are still alive and are left will be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air. And so we will be with the Lord forever. Therefore encourage each other with these words." 
 - 1 Thessalonians 4:13-18a| NIV84

1. I've had to choose to find encouragement in those words. I've had to dwell on the reality that, though we grieve, we do not grieve as those without hope. My dear friends who have "fallen asleep in Him" truly "will be with the Lord forever"! They are with Him even now, as I type these words. As I struggle and strive, amidst grief, to celebrate the fact that God came to Earth as a baby to save the world—and yea, even me—from our sins, they are basking in His glorious presence, face to face. 
2.  
3. I don't pretend to have all the answers, and I certainly don't know what to say to a friend who is saying goodbye to a son on Christmas Day, but I do know this... must hang onto this...
4. 
   
5. Joy to the world, the Lord is come!
   Let earth receive her King;
   Let every heart prepare Him room,
   And heav’n and nature sing,
   And heav’n and nature sing,
   And heav’n, and heav’n, and nature sing.
6. Joy to the earth, the Savior reigns!
   Let men their songs employ;
   While fields and floods, rocks, hills, and plains
   Repeat the sounding joy,
   Repeat the sounding joy,
   Repeat, repeat, the sounding joy.
7. No more let sins and sorrows grow,
   Nor thorns infest the ground;
   He comes to make His blessings flow
   Far as the curse is found,
   Far as the curse is found,
   Far as, far as, the curse is found.
8. He rules the world with truth and grace,
   And makes the nations prove
   The glories of His righteousness,
   And wonders of His love,
   And wonders of His love,
   And wonders, wonders, of His love.
9. -------
   *Entry 1, The 12 Days of Christmas Blog Challenge
   The title is a line from the famous hymn "Joy to the World" by Isaac Watts and Lowell Mason.

Winston's Heaven

This is our first Christmas without our beloved Winston. He was our Christmas rescue from the local SPCA in 2009. Five years ago, he came to us and hijacked Christmas. All we did that year was watch that unruly, crazy, not-so-house-trained dog! And we fell in love. This year, we have another new dog, acquired as a puppy this past July. Like Winston before him, Finley is still trying to figure out exactly where he should and shouldn't "do his business." Like Winston, he wants to eat both the ornaments on the tree and the presents under it.

Finley is a sweetie, and we love him a real whole lot, but we still miss our dear Winston... a real whole lot. So a couple of weeks ago, when we saw him staring back at us from the walls of the local Plow and Hearth store, we had to have the picture. It was marked half off, and—amazingly—was subject to our coupon as well. This isn't common, and we just took it as a further sign that this picture was meant to be ours.

OG calls it Winston's Heaven... "Finally allowed on the bed... and under the covers!" 

It really does look just like him. And now it hangs in our bedroom. Oh, sweet Winston. We miss you!

Every Damn Day

Below is my submission for the August Writing Prompt for Poets Online:"Your task this month is to write a poem about a negative wish (or wishes)--a wish to undo, wishes that change the past. Those are the wishes that pull you right back to the present and have you thinking about the future."

Woulda, coulda, shoulda.
They keep telling me not to think about those.
That's pretty easy for them to say.

("Who the hell is 'they' anyway?" you always asked me
When you didn't agree with what I was saying
But knew I was probably right.
I remember that about you,
Back before Shoulda came to visit
And stole you away.)

They is the people who knew better than me.
I wish to God I'd listened to them.
I wish to God that I'd listened to that white-coat man—
The first one—
When he told me to give you the medicine.

"Time is of the essence," he said
(Yeah, when is it not? Ever?)
And then he pushed me to say goodbye too soon.
I wasn't ready to say goodbye
So I got that second opinion.

Damn the second opinion.
That's what we get when we don't agree with what they are saying
But know that they are probably right.

Well, Second Opinion served his purpose,
And I got the answer I thought I wanted.
At the time.
Before Shoulda came to visit.

What he didn't tell me--
That second white-coat man--
Was that either way you die too soon
And either way I have to say goodbye.

I wish to God I'd just been brave and said,
"Yes sir, you give her that shot right away.
Don't waste any time now.
We need her to walk again.
We need her to talk again.
She won't want to live in a bed the rest of her days."

But I didn't.
And so I got my wish.
The one I wish to God I hadn't wished.

I didn't have to say goodbye too quick.

Now I have to say goodbye too slow.
Every damn day.
While you lie there and look at me with wild eyes
In sunken sockets
And wait for Shoulda to come calling.

Every damn day.

© 2014 Laurie Sitterding

Goodbye, Goo

As I wrote those words, "Goodbye, Goo," tears sprang into my eyes.  I got that oh-so-familiar lump in my throat... and the catch in my breath... the quiver in my chin... the sting in my nose... You see, for the past week, I've been grieving.  There have been many, many tears... lots of hard crying--grief crying--you know, that deep sobbing-and-choking sort of crying.

In our home, we are grieving the loss of a dear friend, a sweet family member.  In very many ways, we are grieving alone.  When we lost our last dog, Little, the outpouring of love and support was overwhelming.  She had been unexpectedly hit by a car, which had been witnessed by one of our children.  It was shocking and surprising and horrible.  We sent out word over Facebook and email, asking people to pray for our sweet children, who were missing their childhood pup, and especially for our sweet OG, who was processing what she had seen.  Comments and emails and notes and cards came in from all sorts of places, and we were amazed and comforted by the prayers of many, many people for us in our grief.

This time around, there have been no notes, no cards, no written expressions of sympathy or comfort.  That is not because our friends have suddenly grown cold or have stopped sending condolences.  No, this time we suffer alone largely because very few people know about what happened.  We did get the standard card that the vet sends out whenever he has to do this terrible thing, when his life-giving hand has to turn into the one that brings death.
 

The card itself is lovely, with a silhouette of a man and his dog sitting on a bench, looking out over a beautiful lake.  It is a striking scene, peaceful and serene. "It's hard to say goodbye to such a special companion.  Our thoughts are with you," says the printed message.

In the careful black penmanship of one of the veterinary employees are added the following words of comfort: "Please accept our deepest sympathies over your loss of Winston.  We know he was a special part of your family and will be greatly missed."

And so he is.  I am missing the constant, happy companionship of one who has been with me daily for the last four years, since we welcomed him into our home.  He was boisterous and excited and so very present in everything we did, so his absence is definitely noticed, all the time.

He was such a good dog, and such a "good boy"!  He had a real heart for obedience.  He wanted to please us and wanted to obey us... always.  If we said, "Sit," he did, right away.  If we told him to go to his crate, he would, immediately.  Even if he was barking his head off and wanting to greet the source of the doorbell, if you told him to go, he went.  Every night, when we fed him his food, he would run to his crate and sit bolt upright.  He would sit that way, head and torso up straight and tall, waiting for the feeder to arrive with the bowls, then staring expectantly at him until he was released to eat from the bowl that had been placed in front of him.  Only the feeder's impressed and happy, "Okay!" would release him from his stand at attention, drooling.

We all miss him terribly.  And we are suffering and grieving alone this time because of the awkward reality that, though we loved this sweet dog as a member of our family, we had to make the heart-wrenching decision to euthanize him.  That isn't the kind of thing you throw onto Facebook.  "Had to put my dog down today.  Miss him," just doesn't quite work as a status update.  It is awkward.  People don't know what to say.  Many disagree with your decision and choice, since they only knew and loved the "good boy" Winston and can't imagine this action was really  necessary.  Others, who agree with your choice, assume that since you made the choice, you must be fine with it.

Reality, however, holds something different.  Making the decision, knowing it is the right decision, moving through the execution of the decision, and living with the results of the decision are all very different things.  You can know that something is "what has to be done" and still choke on your own tears as you walk through the doing of the thing.

I have had to make this decision once before, with our sweet dog, Huckleberry, years ago.  I have sat once before with my canine friend, rubbing the ears and speaking softly and controlling the tears for his sake, watching as his breathing begins to come more slowly and then finally ceases all together.  I was prepared.  I do not think that my husband necessarily was, and I know that the children who opted to be present weren't ready.  They handled it fine, but it is exceedingly difficult to watch the dog you love, who trusts you for his very existence, bound happily into the vet for the next adventure, only to be met with an injection of a confusing sedative.  None of us were prepared for his agitated pacing as he began to feel it work, for his refusal to succumb to the strange feeling coming over him.  I had to coax him into lying down, and coax him further to rest his head on my lap.  He looked up at me with confusion, and maybe a little bit of fear.  But he trusted me, so he allowed it.  That's what is hardest, I think... the absolute trust of this dog that you won't let anything bad happen to him, even as you're paying the vet a few hundred dollars to kill him.

Yes, it's sometimes the right thing to do.  Yes, it sometimes has to be done.  Huckie was very sick and suffering, so that decision was easy.  Winston was healthy and happy and thrilled about life, ready to live another decade, probably, but he was suffering from an inability to control his impulse to bite people.  We're convinced that he probably had something going wrong in his brain, since this biting behavior had not occurred at all during the first couple of years we had him.  When it did start, it was always directed at strangers--men--who were approaching our property or entering our home unexpectedly (at least unexpected to him).  However, over the past year or so, it had begun to increase, both in frequency, intensity, and damage done.  We tried to manage it by moving his crate to the back of the house and locking him up anytime anyone was at our house but family.  This worked for a good, long while, but even in that context we feared for the time we'd forget, either to lock the front door at all times so no one just walked in, or to lock him up before someone expected did arrive.  In the end, the biting behavior even turned toward the other dog and toward one of the children in our home  We knew that it was just a matter of time before this sweet, obedient, happy dog had a moment of whatever-it-was-that-caused-him-to-freak-out-and-bite, and really hurt someone, physically or psychologically.  And so we made the unthinkable choice to end the life of the dog we loved.  We did it for us, yes, but we also did it for him.  We know that he would be mortified if he ever hurt one of these precious children he loved.

 And so we've said goodbye to another dog-friend.  It's still a little raw.  We still cry quickly and easily.  (At the strangest times, a memory will catch me off guard and the tears will spring to my eyes and nose.  I still don't wear any makeup on days that I'm home.)

We are all processing it a little differently.  The girls opted to go with us to the vet, while my son chose to stay home and not be there for the procedure.  He had said goodbye, and wanted to remember Winston the way he'd always been.  I respect that.  And I thank my son for the gift that was given as he let us see him grieve, too.  I will never forget seeing and hearing this 6'7" man taking his grief to the piano keyboard, playing and singing as we all moved about the house that first night. 

Blessed be Your name
On the road marked with suffering
Though there's pain in the offering
Blessed be Your name

Every blessing You pour out
I'll turn back to praise
When the darkness closes in, Lord,
Still I will say

Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be Your name
Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be Your glorious name

You give and take away
You give and take away
My heart will choose to say,
Lord, blessed be Your name

And so we sent him off... loving on him 'til his last breath... grieving his absence... smiling at his memory.  We loved you, Winston.  And we hope that in God's great providence and mercy, He chooses to let us see our beloved pets again one day in heaven.  I wouldn't mind throwing my arms around a glorified version of our sweet Winston and rolling around the hills of heaven together!   I know that many of you will roll your eyes at such an idea, so I share with you an article I found when Little was killed, entitled "Do Dogs Go to Heaven?" by Randy Alcorn.  Before you scoff, know that he quotes theological heavy-weights like John Piper and Joni Eareckson Tada, and leaves you with more than a little hope that you might get to see your special animal friend again one day...

*Entry 2, February - The 12 Months of 2014 Blog Challenge - the title is not from a song, but the lyrics quoted are from Matt Redman's Blessed Be Your Name