The Fallout

God seemed to have answered my prayer. We were on our way to a new lease on life. The vet had told me that no less than three times. And I'd gotten the opportunity in the first place. 

Remember my prayer? If there's a chance, let me have it. If there's not....

And I got that chance, so what happened? 

You would think that in the aftermath of a week like this, I would be mad. That I would be angry with God. That I would be screaming into the universe, hoping He hears me, cheesed off at the bait and switch. 

But I haven't had that thought. Not even for a second. 

Honestly, it surprises even me. 

I mean, I know me. And even I would think that right now, I'd be (forgive the language) pissed. (Also, God isn't so concerned about our language like this. You should study some of the Hebrew and see the things folks have dared say to and about God.) 

But I'm not angry. 

I'm sad. 

The truth is - I got more meaningful time with her. I got two days. Two days that were full of hope and love and life. Two days where she was happy to see me, where I could see that little spark in her eyes that I hadn't seen in so very long. Two days where she was willing and eager to get up with me, to go outside, to walk around, to come back in.

Two days that I had convinced myself to use PTO and take time off work and spend the whole day with my best friend. 

Two days of trusting that everything went well. Two days of believing God. Two days of being thankful. Two days of taking it easy and loving each other. 

You can't tell me that wasn't meaningful time. 

And if my future self is ever reading this, I guarantee that you've forgotten by now how much money those two days cost us...and if you haven't forgotten, please know that the me who is writing this right now knows it was worth every penny. 

Those two days were priceless. 

I am grieving. She came to me in a dream that first night, and I got to say goodbye. I woke up thinking that that day would be a little easier, but I started crying as soon as I woke up, and I never stopped. And I think that's okay. What Sister Mary Thunder and I had for 11+ years was pure love. 

The kind of love that faces the challenges of life together...and beats them. The kind of love that keeps on keeping on. The kind of love that comes to know what the other is thinking. Our love had our lives intertwined to a deeply intimate degree, and it doesn't matter that she was a dog; she was God's tremendous blessing to me, and I will always love her. My grief is simply a reflection of that. 

And my prayer? God answered it. I didn't get the years I was hoping for, but I can't remember asking for years. I asked for time, and I got it. And maybe they weren't our best two days together in more than 11 years, but they were precious days together and, as God guided, so very meaningful.

Today, I am right back where this story started - trying to figure out how to pray again in a season in which I don't know how to go on. In which I don't know what to pray for. In which I feel the frailties of my faith and I'm not sure how to overcome them. 

In which I'm not sure how to trust God or what to trust Him for. 

Except that I know that I'm still asking those questions. And that's at least something....