Sister Mary Thunder

On Fridays all year, I have been sharing stories about humans and human encounters that have changed my life and help me put the way that I relate with others into perspective. This past week, I've been sharing the story of how faith intermingled with my last few days with my beloved husky companion - Sister Mary Thunder. So of course, on this Friday, I would be remiss if I did not share how 11.75 years with this amazing dog changed my life...and me. 

I spent a lot of my younger years wrestling with this broken world, and many of my young adult years trying to manage the aftermath. By the time I was nearing 30, I was extremely insecure. Scared of the world. Unable to break out of deeply ingrained patterns of hypervigilance and self-hatred. (Yes, two extremes.) 

I spent many years existing in this world while at the same time, trying not to take up too much space. Not to be too loud. Not to be too needy. Not to interject myself in spaces where I wasn't wanted, which, in my mind, was all of them. I did very little outside of the house, and even littler in it. Mostly, I sat around trying not to be overcome by the overwhelming stuff inside of me, walking on eggshells in front of my own psyche, and being alive but not really living. 

On the off chance that I tried to do anything outside of my box, I spent so much time regretting it and apologizing for it that it quickly became completely not worth it to even try. 

Enter: Sister Mary Thunder puppy. 

From the moment I got her, I promised myself that she was not going to suffer from my insecurities. We were going to get out in the world and we were going to do things and we were going to have life together.  Not a life, but life. 

On our very first day together, we started going out. I was too scared to walk her more than a block; I wasn't used to going even that far away from home by myself. But then, we walked over to the local ice cream place for "dog day." Turns out, she loved ice cream. So we started trying to do that as often as we could. 

I made excuses to take her to Tractor Supply, the only local business that would let her in. She went and met the neighbors. Everywhere we went, everyone wanted to pet her and love on her. "She's so beautiful." And she was, always. Right up until the day she died. 

She loved the vet more than anyone, maybe because she was born there, and they always commented what a happy girl she was. She made friends with the mail delivery persons...three of them by the end of her life. How many dog owners in the world have to notify the mailman when their dog dies, only to have that mailman come cry with them? She was a good girl, through and through. The best.

I started making a lot of my social media feed about her, and folks were loving it. I was learning to be open about something in my life, to share authentically, to be real. To have a cool dog and let people love her. And as they loved her, I was learning to let them love me. There were times that I wondered whether anyone really liked me or if they were just dog lovers, but the outpouring of love that I have felt in the past couple of weeks as we faced our last days together...folks were really loving me. And somehow, over the course of 11+ years, I had learned to let them. 

I'm not as scared of the world as I was 12 years ago. I'm not as insecure about myself. I don't feel as isolated in the world, though I am still lonely quite a bit. (I am still praying for God to give me a family of my own someday.) I am more outgoing, both in action and in speech, and I have learned to truly engage the world around me. I have wondered what happens to all of that now that she's gone; I have already sensed how easy it would be to go backward, to become scared again. 

I have already wondered if I've really changed at all or if it was all her. 

But then I look at pictures of her, and I feel brave all over again. I feel joy all over again. I feel love all over again. And I don't want to lose that. 

Because I never wanted her to be limited by my insecurities and now, I don't want to feel like everything we had was a lie. I wasn't pretending to be a better human with her; I was a better human with her. 

And if there's anything I can take forward from here, it has to be that. I have to keep being a better human because of her. 

By the grace of God, I will be.