There is a line in the book of Job, after he has lost everything he held dear, where he says, “What I feared has come upon me; what I dreaded has happened to me.”
I am not in Job’s state of loss, but I resonate with that statement because my precious Molly, the Tiny Queen of Everything I write about so often, is beginning to fail. Her 18 years and chronic kidney disease are taking their toll, and I’m riding the roller coaster of vet visits and worried nights. The good days still outnumber the bad, but the writing is on the wall.
Some people probably think this is ridiculous. Of course an 18-year-old blind dog’s days are numbered. Why wouldn’t I be prepared to let go? But are any of us ever prepared to let go of something we love?
As I go through this with Molly, I realize my fixer side has been triggered, and it feels painfully familiar.
When my dad was dying from Parkinson’s, I became frantic. I researched every conventional treatment, faith healing, and snake-oil balm I could find. I begged and bargained with God. I even used worship as a bartering tool, as though if I sang loudly enough or believed hard enough, He would grant my miracle. Dad died anyway.
Afterward, I felt let down and damaged, and I haven’t sung nearly as much since.
Only now, writing this six and a half years later, has God shown me what happened. I had turned worship into an attempt to manipulate Him—to get Him to do my bidding if I performed faith correctly. I think something just healed in me as I wrote that.
But we all know we can’t manipulate God, and His plans are way better and kinder than ours. In the end, Dad’s healing came in the sweet arms of Jesus. I had to accept a will higher than my own.
Then came our matriarch dog, Pabu. She began having seizures shortly after Dad died, and my fixer came roaring back. Maybe I thought I could do for her what I couldn’t do for Dad. Again, I prayed, pleaded, researched, worried, and fought. I couldn’t fix her either.
Now it’s Molly.
For 16 years, since the first time I saw her at St. Francis, I’ve said my heartbeat is synchronized with the wagging of her tail. This one is going to leave a mark. But I sense Papa God telling me that mark can be one of deep love or deep wounding, depending on how I walk through this. I want to do this well.
I’m learning that some storms we don’t get a pass on. They are the price tag of loving well. The harder you love, the more likely it is to leave a mark. Check Jesus’ hands and feet for proof.
Jesus didn’t love by controlling outcomes or avoiding suffering. He entered it. He stayed present. He served. He gave himself completely. Even knowing goodbye was coming, He didn’t spend every moment trying to stop it. He loved the people in front of Him while they were still in front of Him.
Maybe that’s what Molly needs from me now. Maybe my job isn’t to save her from being 18 years old. Maybe my job is to love her while she is. To enjoy the good days instead of grieving them before they’re gone. To be present instead of frantic. And when the day comes that love requires me to open my hands instead of clenching them tighter, to trust that the same Jesus who received my dad and Pabu can receive my Tiny Queen too.
What if we learned to love—and eventually let go—a little more like Jesus?
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