Finding Comfort in the Mystery

June 2, 2009
 
Dear St. Paul’s Family,
 
At five years old, our younger daughter Madelyn has been fairly insulated from the harsh inevitabilities of life, including the reality of death.  But on Sunday, we received word that Casey, our twelve-year old Cocker Spaniel/Poodle, needed X-Rays to determine whether his sore left leg was reparable.  The veterinarian was straight-shooting:  there was a good chance there wouldn’t be much he could do.  
 
Later that day, we sat the girls down to talk to them about our puppy.  We told them that the next day might bring news that would be hard to hear, and that our little friend who has been a mainstay in our family since before our two girls were born might have to be put to rest.
 
Tears flowed, and Madelyn sat on my lap for a while.  Nustling her little forehead in a nook of my neck uniquely shaped for moments like this, she lay silently, choking back staccato breaths between her tender sobs.  She said, “He was really hurting this morning.” After several moments, her eyes darted around the room, and I sensed she was wrestling with the newness of her first-ever waves of real human grief.  Finally, quietly, she whispered, “My tummy hurts.”
 
She has always been terribly empathetic to others’ pain, particularly with animals.  Her response was visceral, painful, and real, and I wanted to do anything to help her cope.  I had to repress every temptation to take cheap shortcuts to stop the tears. I couldn’t promise her that Casey would be okay.  I couldn’t enter into abstract language about how Casey would be going to Heaven. I couldn’t anesthetize her pain by distracting her with a game or a snack.  Instead, the best thing was to sit in the grief, and let the two of us share the moment.  
 
It’s funny what a preacher thinks about in moments like this.  With Trinity Sunday coming up this week, I thought about a line in one of Eugene Peterson’s books that reminded me that in every significant life-stage moment, we speak the name of the trinity.  It’s true.  When a child is baptized, when a couple is married, when we break the bread, when we say farewell: we speak in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.
 
When life gets most chaotic, with both joy and sorrow, there is something stabilizing, albeit ironic, about invoking the mystery of God.  Yes, we would prefer certainty over our doubts, and the tangible over the abstract.  But if all of life could be understood on our own terms, then there would be no possibility of any reality beyond ourselves.  Beyond the hurt and the pain, beyond the highs and the lows.  As our liturgy prays, so we believe:  “When all else fails, you still are God.”
 
The vet gave us the news yesterday.  Casey has bone cancer.  We’ll have him on some strong medications that will ease the pain and give him comfort as he lives out the rest of his days with us.  And when that time comes, when we say good-bye for good, we’ll know we are not alone.  We will be preserved and strengthened by a God in whom we live, move, and have our being.  
 
In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit,
 
Magrey