It had to be done. It was past time. I was tired of looking at the snow in the picture, a regular reminder of the lingering winter. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it, until today, when the possibility of spring seemed real again.
Before I made the change, though, I wanted to reach out and rub those fuzzy ears one more time, even with the snow wetting them. I wanted to grab that face and put mine next to it, despite his preference never to be face-to-face, just one more time.
But it was only a picture, and it was time to move on. Time to replace the snow with brightly colored flowers, jump-starting hopes of soon-coming spring.
Sandy, owner of the fuzzy ears . . . I will never move past him completely, but I can move on. I’ve done fairly well since saying good-bye two months ago, mostly. Other times, when I remember his odd ways – so dear to me – the jab in my heart always leads to my sighed, “Oh, Sandy.”
His are not the only thoughts eliciting pain these days. Similar emotions arise for my dear friend, Ruth, who passed away a month ago. Though I always considered this elderly woman special, not having her to talk to or visit has shined a light on the brightness of this treasure. I miss her so, yet I would not bring her back for one second, even if I could. The constant, unrelenting pain she endured, only slightly dulled by medication, left me interceding for relief and release for her after every visit and phone call.
What am I to do with this emotional pain? Move on, though tears may flow. Consider the physical freedom Ruth is now experiencing, no longer hindered by a feeble and diseased mortal body. Picture both of her eyes clear and twinkling, while listening to her wonderful laughter no longer tinged with pain. Then I imagine her running and dancing with so many people who have gone home ahead of me. Watch her as she loves on each one needing a little encouragement (if that happens in heaven!) In this place, sadness is painted over with thankfulness that Ruth was part of my life. And I smile.
If there’s such a thing as doggie heaven, Sandy is running full of strength and stamina, all four legs cooperating. Occasionally he picks up a towel left within reach, tosses it about before prancing from tree to tree, towel dangling from his mouth, so pleased with himself. That, of course, is before he opens any closed door within sight, or sits in the shade on a sunny spring day, his shiny golden fur in sharp contrast to the deep green grass. His eyes smile constantly, as they did so often when he was here. I, too, smile.
Yes, it’s time. And I’m moving on. Thank You, Lord, for Your infinite ways of healing.