Recklessness

This week, I've been missing my puppy. I've written in this space before about adopting a Saint Bernard puppy for my birthday in November of 2008, and the ups and downs of learning to be "mommy" to a creature that eventually would outweigh me. Unfortunately Cyrus got bone cancer, which is common in giant breed dogs (even puppies), and we had to say goodbye to him shortly before Christmas.

I often joked that adopting Cyrus was the most reckless thing I'd ever done. He was named after King Cyrus of Persia, a gentle conqueror known for promoting the religious freedom and observance of his subjects, notably the people of Israel--I hoped for a gentle giant. Puppies, however, are not known for gentleness. For a year, my life felt overwhelmed by caring for him. Never having had a dog--much less raised one from 6 weeks of age--I had no idea of what hard work it would be, or exactly how much time we'd end up spending together. Always having been a cat person, I sort of assumed that he would learn to take care of himself. Not so. Cyrus came to work, he sat in the car when I had appointments; he even came to clergy meetings with me sometimes. If I'm honest, I admit that there were [many] times when I regretted having adopted him. He'd taken over my Friday nights with puppy kindergarten. He'd taken over my car, which smelled like dog. He'd started taking over my office, leaving our sexton a lot more vacuuming than he'd signed up for. And walking him every morning made me late for work. When he was small, he left holes in the ankles of my pants from chasing me just walking across the room. When he was big, he went after our chairs (and, oddly, the bottom step of our staircase). It was the wrong time to adopt a dog, it was possibly the wrong dog to have in the first place--a toddler and an enormous puppy with another baby on the way? What were we thinking?

Of course, I'm miserable without him.
I miss the attention to the natural world I had from walking him. Last year's Christmas sermon was all about walking the dog, and God's fingerprints in creation. I miss what everyone says about dogs-how forgiving they are, and always glad to see you. I miss the connections with people he invited me into; when you see one hundred pound-plus puppy walking a very pregnant woman, you can't help but laugh. In the two weeks that Adah was overdue, he got more walks than he could have dreamed of.

This is all a very roundabout way of coming back to the point I was thinking about in last week's e-crier--about what it means to be part of a community, and what it means to support one. In a community, we are given to each other-some by chance, some by necessity, some by intention-but always by the grace of God. Just like adopting Cyrus was a reckless decision, joining a spiritual community sort of is, too--you just don't know what it will be like. You can try it out for a while, and even hover on the edges, but eventually you are in it. And it changes you. We hurt each other, we laugh with each other, we forgive each other. You might idly wonder if you should have a bigger church or a different church, but here you are, and someone has to serve the coffee and read the lesson, and you are glad to help.

Coming back to work, I am so aware of how grateful I am for each one of you. In the last few weeks I've been able to visit with some of our older members who haven't been able to come out very much. Today, I as sat with Muriel Nurse, she was telling me about her grandson and the things she's tried to teach him. The most important thing, she said, is to never hesitate to tell someone you love them. It's good advice for us all.

Blessings,
Sara+