faith

Divine guidance from a mutt

IMG_9776As published in The Providence Sunday Journal, July 21, 2019.

It was an unusual conclusion to an Easter Sunday sermon: Last April, Father Tim handed everyone at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church a crisp dollar bill and asked that we give it to a stranger. We might also wish them a Happy Easter, the rector said, as we passed along “the surprise of grace.”

Half an hour later, with the bill neatly folded in the pocket of my button-down shirt, I did what I usually do after church: I took my dog, Rhody, for a walk.

Rhody’s a two-year-old rescue dog from Georgia, part black lab and part mystery. But more than anything, Rhody is super social. She wants to say hi to everyone, which usually means jumping up on people to give them a lick.

She’s kind of like my older brother, Rob, in that way (well, not the jumping and licking part). Rob has an outgoing warmth about him that I envy. When the two of us walk into a busy room, he gravitates to the crowd while I sidle to a wall.

I’ve discovered that being an introvert presents challenges when your dog is a social butterfly. Rhody’s always pulling me toward people and I’m usually pulling away, partly because I don’t want her to maul them but also because, honestly, that’s my comfort zone. So on Easter Sunday morning, when a middle-aged guy in workout gear approached us, I veered to the side of the road to give him a wide berth.

And then I remembered the dollar bill in my pocket – I’m supposed to give it to someone. Father Tim, you’re killing me.

I shortened up Rhody’s leash and moved back into the middle of the street. When the guy was within 10 feet of us, I said, “Good morning!”

Now Rhody’s tail was going like mad as she strained against her harness, eager to give this guy her two-paw greeting. I wouldn’t have blamed him if he had quickened his pace and just given us a polite nod. But instead he stopped and asked, “What’s up?”

“I just came from church,” I said, keeping Rhody at bay. “The priest gave us all a dollar bill and asked that we pass it on to someone. So I want to give mine to you.” I handed him the bill. “Happy Easter.”

His face softened, and he smiled. “Wow,” he said. “Thank you!”

We went our separate ways, and as the guy walked on, I’m pretty sure he had a skip in his step that I hadn’t detected before. I noticed the same thing about mine.

My faith, at best, is a work in progress. I sit in the pews at St. Luke’s each week with my questions about God, even as I am comforted by the liturgy, lifted by hymns, and challenged by the words of a gifted rector.

When I shared my Easter Sunday story with my brother, it wasn’t lost on us that Father Tim and Rhody seemed to be on the same page. Love thy neighbor, right?

“You know what they say,” Rob joked. “Dog is God spelled backwards.”

That prompted me to investigate the connection between dogs and the Divine. What little the Bible says about man’s best friend isn’t very flattering.

But listen to Mark Twain: “Heaven goes by favor. If it went by merit, you would stay out and your dog would go in.”

And Robert Louis Stevenson: “You think dogs will not be in heaven? I tell you, they will be there long before us.”

And Will Rogers: “If there are no dogs in heaven, then when I die I want to go where they went.”

As I said, I’m not so sure about the afterlife. But at least I have Rhody in the here and now. And as long as I do, I’ll keep trying, to paraphrase C.J. Frick, to be the person my dog thinks I am.

 

Praying for our dog’s return

georgy girl001_2

As published in The Providence Sunday Journal, February 18, 2018.

I wasn’t happy about my family’s move to Narragansett three weeks before I started second grade. I missed my best friend and next-door neighbor, Chris, in Providence. Instead of walking with him on the first day of school, I now had to take a bus, surrounded by strangers.

But things got better when my mother came home one afternoon with a shaggy black puppy with tan and white markings. Mom named the pup Georgy Girl, after the lead character in a recent popular movie.

My brothers and I loved to watch Georgy chase rabbits in a field near our new house, leaping and then disappearing in the tall grass. We laughed when she licked our faces, even though her tongue felt like damp sandpaper.

Thank God we got a dog because there weren’t many kids to play with in our neighborhood off of Point Judith Road. The area’s sparse year-round population prompted St. Mary Star of the Sea Church to recruit my older brother, Rob, and me to become altar boys. It didn’t matter that I had yet to make my First Holy Communion, normally a prerequisite to serving on the altar. Father Hughes, St. Mary’s kindly pastor, granted me dispensation; he needed help, and we lived nearby.

My debut was memorable, though not for spiritual reasons. When it was time for Father Hughes to prepare for the Consecration, I somehow dropped the silver hand washing basin, and it rolled in circles on the green-carpeted altar floor. Attempting to grab the bowl, I looked like Georgy chasing her tail.

Once I settled into my altar boy duties, the language of the liturgy captivated me, as did Father Hughes’ sonorous voice. With his incantations about angels and archangels and “the mystery of faith,” he sounded to me like God Himself.

That made it easy to accept things that might otherwise have vexed an 8-year-old mind, such as bread and wine turning into the body and blood of Christ, and God hearing me when I said my prayers.

The last of these, however, was put to the test later that fall when Georgy disappeared.

“I let her out this morning, and she never came back,” my mother told Rob and me after school one day. Her voice was filled with worry.

Rob and I set out for the leafless woods across from our house. Mom and my younger brother, James, jumped in her red Opel Kadett to comb the streets. When my father got home from work, he joined the search, heading toward Salt Pond. But at bedtime, Georgy was still missing. Unable to sleep, and as upset as I had been in my life till then, I prayed for our dog’s return.

The next 24 hours brought more of the same: anxious walks through the woods, drives through the neighborhood, and calls of “Georgy!” into the evening quiet.

There was still no scratch at the door. On this second night of separation, I tossed in my bed, whispering words to the darkness again.

And then, early the following morning, as my mother drove to the market across from St. Mary’s for a quart of milk, there was Georgy, sitting on the front stoop of a vacant summer cottage. Mom, who said our dog sprang into the car as happy as ever, honked the horn when she got back to our house, and Georgy greeted my brothers and me with leaps and licks and wags of her tail.

Had my prayers been answered? Did angels intervene? Or was it random luck that my mother had run out for milk at just the right time to find our missing dog? I would wrestle with such mysteries when I got older, but not on this day — not with Georgy safely delivered home and curled up on the couch in our den.

That night, after crawling into bed, I whispered a simple, two-word prayer to the darkness and beyond: “Thank you.”

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