​About the Book
“What if God’s call is not to be good but to become whole? Not to stay safe but to catch fire? What if the deepest desire of God’s heart is not to be praised and obeyed, but known and loved?” What if God isn’t measuring us but enjoying us?” These are some of the questions posed in this beautiful little book, a collection of fifteen reflections on the nature of the spiritual life by a woman who has worked for twenty years companioning others on their spiritual journeys and whose own journey moved her from obedience to a God who reigned on high to love for a God who calls us by name. In a lively, conversational style, the author shares stories from her own life, offering her readers glimpses of the graciousness and playfulness, the humility and vulnerability of this God of grandeur who has chosen to share life with us. Each reflection is accompanied by a full-color illustration, a set of reflection questions, and a page or two for journaling.

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Originally published in The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, June 30, 2007.

I was raised in an Irish Catholic family in Brooklyn in the 1940s. My parents had lived through two world wars and the Great Depression. The theology we were raised on went something like this: Life is hard; pain and struggle are part of it. We take pleasures where we find them, but mostly we accept and endure, and look to heaven and the life to come.

When things got good, we wondered if too much earthly delight would compromise our eternal reward. Clearly this doctrine was in need of some correction.

There is another theology going around these days, the flip side of the one I was raised with. This theology tells us that we are entitled to prosperity here and now, and that if we pray hard enough, have enough faith, give money, and do good works, God will come through for us. Ask. Believe. Receive.

Now, while there is certainly truth in the notion that a generous spirit contributes to a healthy life, and while I also believe absolutely that faith in God transforms lives (as a spiritual director, I see grace at work every day in amazing ways), I believe there is real danger in trying to reduce the chaos of life and the mystery of God to a neat cause/effect formula: We do for God/God does for us.

And what happens when it backfires? Over 15 years in practice, I have seen the damage done to people who have followed the prescription --- Ask, Believe, Receive --- and do not receive. Good people, faithful people, who have done all they can think of to "please" God (as if God needed coaxing!), so he will give them a child or cure their husband's cancer or heal an addicted relative or help them pay the mortgage.

Despite their ardent prayers, the womb remains barren, the cancer spreads, the son overdoses, the money runs out. Their certainties crumble and they are left floundering in a sea of questions: Does God really exist? Is God on my side? Have I done something wrong?

Where do I go from here? They blame themselves, they blame God or simply walk away at the very moment when God most longs to be there for them.

It is important for purveyors of the prosperity gospel, well-intentioned as they may be, to realize that their theology only works in Drive. And reversals can be mortally wounding to faithful people.

It is one thing to pray to be open to God's grace; quite another to make promises on God's behalf that may or may not come true. God is not like a stock we invest in for solid returns or an insurance policy with guarantees for those who pay their premiums. We live in a beautiful, dark and broken world. Bad things happen to good people all the time. And vice versa. Why? We don't know. We just don't know. That is no answer, but it is the truth.

What we do know is that God is with us wherever we are, our companion in our suffering, offering in the darkest times fresh supplies of strength and courage and hope and love. There is a chilling scene in Elie Wiesel's book "Night," a scene in the camps. A young boy is being hanged, and the inmates are forced to watch. At one point the man behind Elie asks: "Where is your god now?" Elie replies, "He is there, hanging from the gallows."

Suffering is not a sign of God's wrath or God's indifference. It is a fact of human life. We don't seek it; we certainly don't sanctify it. But when it is inescapable and we are driven to the depths, if we listen in the stillness, we may hear the heartbeat of love, comforting us, sustaining us, laboring to restore us to life.

Originally published in The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, November 6, 2004.

Nothing about this issue is easy --- let me say that right upfront. The science of stem cell research is extraordinarily complex. And when we talk about embryonic stem cell research, the issue moves beyond science into ethics and religion, and the field becomes even more highly charged.

I am neither a scientist nor an ethicist, but a woman of faith trying to make an informed decision, one that is morally and intellectually sound.

Scientists are asking for federal funding to do embryonic stem cell research, which they believe holds great promise for curing devastating illnesses such as Alzheimer's, Parkinson's, diabetes, spinal cord injuries and multiple sclerosis. (Stem cells are the basic building blocks for human tissues and organs.) Cures are not imminent, but over the next decade real progress may be made. Adult stem cells are available, used for blood disorders, but they do not have the broad potentialities of embryonic stem cells, many of the researchers say.

President Bush has refused to allow National Institutes of Health funding to create new embryonic stem cell lines. Destroying embryos is off-limits, he maintains, no matter how worthwhile the venture may prove to be.

Experimentation is continuing with existing stem cell lines established before 2001, but the president's decision forbids the creation of new lines with federal money. About 70 lines were estimated to be available --- but fewer than 20, it turned out, were in good enough shape to use in research.

Those who support Bush's decision argue that, even though the embryos in question are "leftovers" --- embryos that will never be implanted in a woman's uterus (and this is important to remember) --- the very fact that they are life "in potentia" means we cannot tamper with them.

Opponents of this ban, and I am one of them, believe that because the embryos will be disposed of anyway, it is wrong not to use them in an effort to alleviate real human suffering. In the hands of researchers, the embryos would be used to give life --- life to living people who suffer with crippling diseases.

Between those who would bar the door, terminate all debate, condemn as murderers those who oppose the restrictions, and those at the other extreme, who would fling the doors wide open with no restrictions, no restraints, no reverence for the sacredness of the work or the implications of what they do, are people like me --- and perhaps you --- struggling to deal with the complexities and come to a decision that reflects not only the knowledge in our minds but also the wisdom of our hearts and souls.

We should and must proceed with embryonic stem cell research, taking our lead from people of science and medical ethicists, not government legislators or ideologues. But we must do so with caution and reverence for the work and with a firm commitment never to misuse the process or the knowledge we gain --- for we are on holy ground.

Jesus was healer
Some opponents of this research have the mistaken notion that scientists will harvest these stem cells from aborted fetuses. That is not the case. The cells come from fertility clinics. They are donated by couples who no longer have need of them, and who choose to donate their surplus embryos to science. There are more than 400,000 frozen human embryos. More than 11,000 of them are available for research. Unless the ban on federal funding is lifted, they eventually may be discarded and with them the life-giving secrets they may contain.

This to me seems morally wrong and frankly senseless --- not a preservation of life but a denial of it. I don't want to claim that God is on my side (there's far too much of that going around these days), but I do believe that Jesus was a man who stood firmly on the side of life. In fact he came to Earth that we might have life and have it abundantly (John 10). His entire ministry was devoted to healing --- the crippled, the blind, the leprous, the women bent and bleeding. They came to him and he healed them. He even brought to life people who had died. When laws got in the way, he broke them --- healing a suffering woman on the Sabbath to the chagrin of the religious authorities. Human suffering grieved him, and he did all he could to ease it.

The Hebrew Scriptures also show God as deeply merciful. Skimming through my book of Psalms, I find this: "When the just cry, the Most High hears and delivers them from their troubles. God is close to the brokenhearted. . . . Many are the afflictions of the just; they will be delivered from them all. God will keep guard over all their bones, not one of them shall be broken." And this: "O God, you deliver them in the day of trouble; you guard them and give them life; . . . you sustain them on their sickbeds; you heal them of all their infirmities."

Even Orrin Hatch, the conservative Republican senator from Utah, was persuaded to support embryonic stem cell research. In a letter to the secretary of health and human services, he said: "I am proud of my strong pro-life record. . . . I conclude that this research is consistent with pro-life values [and] should proceed."

God gave us the brilliance of scientists, the wonders of technology. Is it not also possible that this good God gave us these living cells, designated for destruction? Isn't it possible he gave them to us as another source of revelation --- a pathway to miraculous discoveries that will turn mourning into dancing, give life back to innocent people who are crippled, blind, in unrelenting pain?

In our effort to protect life, we must be careful not to idolize the embryo, enshrining it like a sacred cow. We mustn't let the fear of doing something wrong keep us from doing what is right.

Insisting that undifferentiated cells must be preserved only to be destroyed --- at the very least it makes no sense; at most it may be turning our backs on grace.

Originally published in The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, July 22, 2006.

It's been close to a month now, but the gladness lingers like a hum in the air. The call came while I was eating lunch. It was my friend, Beverley Elliott, an Episcopal priest, calling to tell me that the House of Bishops had just elected the new presiding bishop of the Episcopal Church. I could hear the laughter in her voice.

Before I could ask who it was, she sang out: "It's a woman!" Katharine Jefferts Schori --- 52 years old, with a Ph.D. in oceanography, ordained for only 15 years and a bishop for just seven years --- had just been elected to the highest office in the Episcopal Church, the first woman ever to hold the office in the history of the United States.

Even as I write this, I can feel the chill that went through me when I heard the news. In the split second it took for my mind to digest the meaning, my body had already responded with a resounding hallelujah. Just a few days earlier, I had been thrilled to learn that the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) also had elected a woman --- Joan Gray of Atlanta (not the first woman but an excellent candidate) --- to fill the position of moderator, one of the two top spots in their denomination.

Two outstanding candidates, both women, recognized by an assembly of their mostly male peers as gifted, graced and called to lead their churches in a time of pain and deep division. It was indeed good news --- good news for women, good news for men, good news for the church, good news for the world.

But why such a visceral response in me? Was it that women were finally "in the lead"? No. I don't believe women are inherently better (or worse) leaders than men. Was it because they had been elected not by other women but by an assembly composed largely of men? That was certainly welcome news, but that still wasn't it. Was it because I believe women have an aptitude for healing fractures and would tend to be more collaborative, more skilled at coaxing people out of their entrenched positions and into more promising conversations? Perhaps.

But I think the real reason I was so thrilled was because in both cases, as far as I could tell, gender never factored into the equation. It was totally irrelevant! These leaders weren't chosen because they were women; nor were they chosen in spite of being women. They were chosen because they were qualified, superbly qualified. Both are people of vision and courage and wisdom and grit and humility and humor and deep dedication and a keen sense of calling.

What made my cells ring was that these events fueled an abiding hope in me and many others that men and women would one day come together as peers and allies. What if it was no coincidence at all --- two women being elected within days of each other to top positions in major Christian denominations --- but a signal that the times were changing. For real. Once and for all. There would continue to be holdouts, for sure, places where qualified people would be disqualified because of their anatomy. But those days wouldn't last forever. God's spirit was being freed to blow where she/he will, unbounded by stereotypes.

I'm reminded of an article I read recently about the marriage of Jimmy and Rosalynn Carter. Right up front, Jimmy Carter says that in the early days of their marriage he was the boss. He led the way. Rosalynn's job was to follow along and make it all work. Looking back, he freely admits to being "embarrassingly domineering." But that was all he knew.

Over the years, thanks to their great love for each other and Rosalynn's willingness to speak up for a more creative and equitable arrangement, they were able to dismantle the "Me Tarzan, you Jane" contract, and renegotiate a way of being together that gave equal weight to the needs, talents, dreams and desires of each of them. Today they enjoy a marriage of deep mutuality and respect. The abundant fruits of their partnership speak for themselves.

So it would seem, if we read these elections as a sign of the times, that by God's good grace and our own willingness to be converted, our distorted lenses are being removed and we are being given eyes to see one another for who we are. The gifts of God for the people of God are being freed to flourish wherever they are found. And if that isn't cause for a resounding hallelujah, I don't know what is.

Originally published in The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, February 18, 2006.

What is it about the word feminism that sends so many people through the roof?

To tell the truth, it's hard for me to love the word anymore myself. It's been beaten up so badly, it's hardly recognizable anymore.

When Wendy Wasserstein, author of "The Heidi Chronicles," died in late January and Betty Friedan, author of "The Feminine Mystique," died earlier this month, the word seemed to re-enter the public conversation.

In the early days of the women's movement, the word described people --- mostly women but many men as well --- who believed in equal rights for women. They were people who thought it wasn't fair to give two people the same job and pay one less because she was a woman; or to tell a woman who wanted a career that her place was in the home; or to wall off whole areas of study to women because they were deemed unfit for serious work; or to hand over control of the most intimate use of her own body to government legislators. They were people who understood how badly women's gifts were needed in the wider world, how wrong it was to seal off all that untapped energy.

Feminists were people who realized that women come in different shapes and sizes, that a model that worked well for one woman couldn't be applied to all. Some women loved their roles as wives and mothers, nurses, teachers, social workers, nuns. They were the lucky ones. And even they deserved opportunities beyond the scope of hearth and home.

Others had different talents, different drives, different dreams. To fit they had to cut off parts of themselves. Anyone raised by a mother who wanted a different life but couldn't let herself have it saw firsthand the damage done, not just to the woman but often to the family she loved and served as well.

One problem with the feminist movement --- and I think it's one reason why so many women to this day can't embrace the word --- is that it gave homemakers the impression that they weren't up to speed. The early feminists, in their efforts to break the stranglehold of the feminine stereotype --- woman as pretty, sweet, compliant, cheerful and demure, sitting on the sidelines while the men played ball --- left those women who didn't want advanced degrees or high-powered careers feeling deficient and defensive. Understandably they pushed back, disassociating themselves from the movement altogether.

Mean-spirited commentators, both male and female, went to work draining the word of its promise and twisting it into an accusation. Feminists were demonized, portrayed as women who had no use for men, disdained marriage and motherhood, dressed in work shirts and Army boots, and raised a fist when you tried to shake their hand. I remember a magazine cover from the 1980s --- it might have been Ms. --- showing two women in boxing gloves facing off against each other --- one in an apron, the other in a pinstriped suit.

Looking back on those days, I see myself caught in the middle --- too radical for the homemakers, too conservative for the radicals. I wanted to be a good wife and mother, but I also wanted to have a life outside the home. (Fortunately, I was one of those lucky women who had a choice. Most women work because they have to.)

I did keep working when my kids were young, but only part time, and never with a crystal clear conscience. I called myself a feminist, but felt compelled to follow up with what I did not mean by that. I didn't hate men, though I did wonder why so many had such trouble with strong women. I didn't want women to run the world, but I did want them to work side by side with men, speaking with clear voices and carrying equal weight. I didn't feel angry or bitter or victimized, but I did believe with all my heart that sexism was a grievous sin, that it was rampant at all levels of society, and that anyone who said this was the way things ought to be --- or worse, that God ordained it --- was dead wrong. I believed it was cruel and unjust to say that the only legitimate love was the love between a man and a woman. I believed that terminating a pregnancy was a terrible choice to have to make, but that when a woman had to make that choice, she was entitled to good doctors and good medical care. I believed this was a pro-life stance.

Today, years later, I still call myself a feminist. I don't explain what I mean anymore, but if I did what would I say? Well, for one thing, I would say the word is bigger than it used to be. It has grown over the years, along with the women and men who have worn it. Feminism, cleansed of the smears, healed of the bruises, and brought up to date, is a word that speaks now not just to women's liberation, but to men's as well, for patriarchy harms us all. It speaks to people who believe in equal rights and equal responsibilities for all people --- female and male, rich and poor, black and white, gay and straight, abled and disabled.

The feminists whose work I value most these days are those who challenge me to go even farther, out beyond my borders, to attend to the call of the powerless in the Third World, and to the cries of Mother Earth herself. They remind me that in the end we are all one human family, together in the same boat, owing each other what G.K. Chesterton calls "a terrible loyalty." We do for the least, for the good of us all. If these people still call themselves feminists, who am I to abandon the word?

Originally published in The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, August 20, 2005.

I have just returned from giving a workshop at a Catholic retreat center in Houston.

The theme of the workshop was "The Midlife Invitation" --- how to live the middle years of our lives in a way that will lead to more peace, joy and freedom.

There were 40 women there, mostly married, wives and mothers, drawn by a desire to explore new ways of being in the second half of life.  As one woman put it, "I feel like I've spent the first half of my life giving birth to others. Now it's time to give birth to myself."

Around them, circumstances are changing --- kids leaving home, parents aging and dying, marriages in flux; within them there is a mounting desire to know the people they have lived with all their lives before it's too late.

Ours is indeed a fortunate generation. A hundred years ago a person was lucky to live past 50. Had I lived then, I would be dead by now. Instead, I have had a full life so far, with the prospect of 20 to 30 more years to come.

And so the question arises: How to live the second half of life in a way that is as rewarding as the first, a way that allows us to continue to open --- to our selves, to our God, to one another --- so that we may receive the promise of Christ in all its fullness: "I have come that you may have life, and have it abundantly."

A search for answers leads us to the work of Carl Jung, a Swiss psychoanalyst whose insights on the midlife passage formed the foundation for books like Gail Sheehy's "Passages."

After years of working with people, observing which ones flourished and which ones declined as they aged, he made a startling proclamation: "We cannot live the afternoon of life according to the program of life's morning, for what was true in the morning will by evening have become a lie." A rich later life requires a shift in priorities at midlife, a gentle turning toward greater "interiority."

In the first half of life, says Jung, we are busy establishing ourselves in the outer world --- going through school, getting a job, raising a family, building a career. And that is as it should be. But as we move through our 40s and 50s and into our 60s, the things that once motivated us don't hold the same attraction --- advancing and achieving, making an impression, getting invited. We may keep doing them because we don't know what else to do, but the chewing gum has begun to lose its flavor. And on some level, we know it.

This is a good, if uncomfortable place to be, says Jung. It marks a summons from the deeper self within to pay more attention to what's going on inside. The dis-ease is there to help move us to a place of inquiry: How do I like the way I am living? Do I want to continue to live this way? If not, what now? Where is God calling me to at this point in my life?

It is during this time that people feel the urge to experiment with new ways of being. A man whose work has been the center of his life may choose to slow the pace, take a yoga class, spend more time gardening or with his grandchildren. A woman whose life has been centered around her home and family may insist on allocating money in the family budget for her to go back to school to pursue a passion deferred.

There is a growing hunger among people in the second half of life for soul food. Courses in creative writing, watercolor painting, acting, pottery are peppered with people in midlife expressing themselves in new creative ways. Some even find the bravery now to look into their own interior world, with the help of a therapist, to uncover wounds in need of healing, losses that need to be grieved, forgotten dreams stored in an inner closet.

Once they have embraced the challenge and embarked on the journey in earnest, they find themselves making fresh choices in every area of their lives, from what they eat to where they live to how they pray. They begin renegotiating their relationships, finding friends who can support them, seeking counseling for their marriages. Accommodating others gives way to becoming true to who they are --- a unique and precious image of the God in whose image we were made.

When we are tempted to accuse ourselves of being selfish for spending all this time and money on ourselves, it's important to remember the words of Irenaeus, a father of the church: "The glory of God is the human person fully alive." And Teresa of Avila, a doctor of the church, who tells us that there is no more important task in life than the work of self-realization.

For as we become more fully, deeply and freely our true selves, we reflect more brightly God's light in the world.

Midlife is a rocky time, to be sure, but it is also a time rich with possibilities. And so we summon our courage, surround ourselves with good friends and wise guides, make prayer a vital part of our daily practice, and move forward in faith, traveling more and more in the company of the One who made us and loves us and calls us home to our self.

Originally published in The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, April 30, 2005.

I was strolling through the St. Vincent de Paul thrift shop when the news came over the television that a new pope had been chosen. I felt a chill go through me and followed an urge to leave the store before his name was announced. My reaction surprised me. It had been years since I'd felt bound by what came down from Rome, yet clearly what happened there still mattered to me.

Hours later, when I heard the news that Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger had been chosen, my heart sank. Ratzinger, now Pope Benedict XVI, was the head of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, a powerful arm of the Vatican, staunch defender of Roman rule. Of all the potential candidates to succeed John Paul II, he was among those most adamantly opposed to the reforms that I and other progressive Catholics believe are so badly needed if the church is to be true to its mission.

The image I had as the news sank in was of an iron drawbridge going up and clanging shut. My church was being hijacked --- the church of my childhood; the church where I had faithfully consecrated all the milestones in my life; the church to which my ancestors, including a Sacred Heart nun, a Jesuit priest and a cardinal, had given their lives --- and I was being faced with a decision I had been putting off for years. I thought of Magdalene at the empty tomb. "They have taken my Lord."

It didn't have to be this way. I remember the early years of Pope John Paul II's papacy, how young he was at 58, so vigorous and friendly, arms spread wide as he traversed the world giving Catholicism a face none could resist. He seemed the perfect pope for the times, an embodiment of the great call of Vatican II to open the windows and let in fresh air.

I remember the excitement I felt seeing John Paul II in person for the first time. It was 1979. I was working in New York and his Popemobile came down our street. I can still see him, standing tall in the sun, a wide smile on his face, bowing left and right, tossing blessings in the air. It was a wonderful day to be Catholic, and he was a radiant star.

To top it off, he was brilliant and brave and profoundly prayerful. Over the nearly 27 years of his reign, he visited 129 countries, survived an assassination attempt with John Wayne heroism, contributed mightily to the fall of communism, challenged the poverty of our materialistic culture, advocated tirelessly on behalf of the world's poor and pleaded the cause of nonviolence to the end.

But there were grave deficiencies in his papacy as well, especially as he aged. He had blind spots, and he surrounded himself with people who would not challenge his views. In spite of his love for Mary, he refused to ordain women. In opposition to the advice of many of his bishops and the majority of U.S. Catholics, he condemned artificial contraception, inflicting untold burdens on people, contributing to the spread of AIDS and unwanted pregnancies. He refused to lift the ban on priestly celibacy (which has no basis in Scripture), thus contributing to a critical priest shortage and threatening the sacramental life of the church. He made Catholic theologians at Catholic universities sign orthodoxy statements. Pedophilia festered too long before it came to light. The list goes on.

This cost the church dearly, decimating the ranks of its members and severely weakening its voice as a moral leader. During his papacy, the Second Vatican Council's call to "aggiornamento" (dialogue and collegiality) gave way to a shocking "Re-Romanization" of the church. Power came once again to reside in Rome; bishops' concerns were routinely overlooked and overruled. Millions of loyal Catholics were labeled dissenters because they could not in conscience forsake the call of the spirit, so alive in council documents, in favor of obedience to Rome. Front row seats were offered to ultra-conservative groups like Opus Dei and the Legionaries of Christ, while progressive Catholics who challenged the church's increasingly dictatorial practices, confronted its sexism and homophobia, and called for reform, were left standing in the waiting room.

For those of us who had hoped this new pope would be more open, this is a sad day. It gives new urgency to the question of how loyal Catholics who hear a different Gospel call can continue to relate to an institutional church that seeks control rather than promoting growth and discounts the concerns of prayerful people. Has the time come to leave an institution that insists the spirit of God cannot blow through voices that challenge the church? Or is the call to stay and pray and continue to work for reform? I don't know the answer. But the question has an urgency I can no longer ignore.

Originally published in The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, July 21, 2001.

There are times in life, even for the most faithful people, when faith is tested to the limit, times when we are called to bear a weight so great we fear our faith in a loving God will break. My time has not yet come. But such a time came recently for people I know --- the Kelley family --- when their son climbed to the top of a crane and hanged himself after nearly 24 hours suspended between life and death.

The newspapers told us he was carrying a Bible. I know for a fact he came from a family where faith was a part of daily life. He was not a bad person but a sick person. It should not have ended this way. But it did. So what are we to make of it? How do we continue to believe? Faith teaches us that in God all shall be well, that when we pray, God listens. All was not well that day.

Those of us who knew the Kelleys watched and prayed throughout that day. We prayed and waited. And waited. And waited. Finally we went to bed, with Michael on our hearts and prayers freshly said on our lips: "Keep him safe. Bring him home." But when morning came, we learned that Michael would not be coming home; he had made the choice to die. Thank God the papers didn't print the pictures, but we could not keep from seeing in our mind's eye his lifeless body swinging in the night.

The God who is with us
At the funeral Mass on Monday, the priest who gave the homily spoke forcefully about the God who is with us in our pain and the great gift our faith can be when life as we know it collapses. He spoke of Mary, the mother of Jesus, and how she would be with this family in a special way now. For she too had watched her son die a horrible death, a death that should not have been, with crowds of people looking on, some even looking forward to the show.

He didn't say God would make it all OK. He did say faith calls us to trust --- to trust that we will be comforted, that we will be held up while we make our way to a place where we can live again.

I used to believe that if I went to church and said my prayers and obeyed all the rules, I could trust God to spare me from the worst life had to offer. It was a kind of State Farm theology: God was prepared to protect me if I paid a proper premium. That understanding can't hold up now, not under these circumstances.

Linda Kelley is a member of my church. She and I were in a small faith community together. I saw her as someone who loved God and took seriously her spiritual life. In her work as a school psychologist she was dedicated to helping improve the lives of troubled kids. On a scale of one to 10 she held high marks for faithfulness. Surely God heard the prayers of this mother's heart. So why did it end this way?

Kindness along the way
It stayed with me, what the priest said. He spoke not of a mighty God who controlled all things from on high, but of a tender, loving God who lived among us, a God who stood with the family in their grief, shared the anguish of their loss, a God who was working to bring healing out of pain, new life from a great loss.

The day of the funeral I saw God present through people like you and me --- priests, parishioners, friends, members of the police force --- all gathered simply to be with the family. As I watched the care and kindness, I thought, we can't bring Michael back but we can stand with Linda and her family while they struggle to bear it. We can cry. And cook. And listen when she is able to speak. And go to her when she opens her arms. We can offer her a shelter while she heals, a place to bend and grieve and wait for the passing of time.

Faith tells us Michael is finally at peace in God. The community shows us that God is at work in our midst, binding our wounds, helping us bear the burdens, bringing us slowly back from death to life.

Originally published in The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, November 25, 2007.

Her name was Jessie --- Jessica officially, but we only called her that when she crossed the line. She was our dog for 15 years. She was also our teacher. In her living and her dying she graced our lives with love.

She was a beagle-dachshund combination, with just enough retriever so she couldn't meet us at the door without something in her mouth --- a stray sock, a scrap of paper, whatever she could get to in a hurry.

We'd walk in and there she'd be, velvet ears perked, brown eyes wide, back end swinging to and fro like windshield wipers in a rainstorm. It didn't matter how long we'd been gone, an hour or a day; to her it was just so good to have us home again.

We'd gotten her as a pup, from the Atlanta Humane Society, the fulfillment of a promise we'd made to our two boys when we had to move them from Houston to Atlanta in 1991. They were 8 and 10 at the time, the perfect age for a dog, and she was the perfect dog for them --- for all of us. She was lively and loving, quick to accommodate the ups and downs of our hectic lives.

Five years ago, when I found myself living on my own as the result of a separation, Jessie came with me. The boys were in college by then, both at Emory --- Peter studying sociology and art, en route to a career as a Montessori teacher; Oliver studying literature, and preparing for an M.A. in environmental management. There we were, Jessie and me, "two girls learning to live on their own," as a friend put it. And I must say, she was wonderful company --- playful and bright, warm and comforting. Just what the doctor ordered! In fact, a doctor friend of mine once said, only half in jest, that when one of his patients is diagnosed with cancer, the first prescription he writes is for a dog. I can see why.

About six months ago, I began to notice troubling signs of aging in Jessie. Her eyesight began to fade. Her arthritis got worse. The treats that used to make her prance and twirl lay forgotten on the ground. Even when the boys came by and tried to coax her to play, she'd only glance up from her bed, then turn away. One practice that had never failed was for us to gather round the island in the kitchen and clap-clap-clap-clap, while she raced from room to room, skidding round the corners, flipping up the rugs, sending the cats into orbit. Now she couldn't even hear the call, much less join in the game.

Going for her daily walks became an ordeal. She had difficulty getting on her feet, and winced when I tried to help her. I'd get her out the door and after a few steps she'd start to wobble and fall backward onto her bottom, looking bewildered and vaguely embarrassed. The vet increased her pain medication, which helped some, but only for a while.

Weeks went by. I kept her close. Then one early morning, sitting on the floor of my bedroom with her head in my lap, I asked the question into the quiet, and the answer came from inside me clear as a bell: It's time.

I approached the boys, who each took a different position --- one maintaining that it wasn't right to put her down, the other insisting that it wasn't fair not to. I remained on the sidelines, admiring their willingness to struggle until the way became clear. Jessie was not just a dog, she was our dog, and a beloved member of our family at that. We owed it to her to struggle with the question, to stay in indecision for as long as it took to be sure the answer we arrived at was one we could all live with.

"It's not just the quantity of life that counts, but the quality," said Oliver. "I know it's really hard to think of losing her. But look at her --- she can't see, she can't hear, she can barely walk. Is it right to keep her alive just because we don't want to let her go? How do we know she's not in pain? I hate to say it, but I think it's time."

"But what if she's not ready?" replied Peter. "What if we are making this decision for us and not for her . . . because of all the accidents on the rugs, or because we can't stand to see her like this? We've got to be sure we're doing it because it's right for her, not just convenient for us."

While they debated, Jessie's decline started to accelerate. It was almost as if she sensed our dilemma. One morning she simply refused to get up --- not to eat or drink or go for a walk. The message was clear. This dear dog who'd lit up our lives for 15 years, who'd made the good times better and helped us weather the bad, was asking us to let her go.

We called the vet that day to discuss options. She told us we could bring Jessie to her office, or we could have the procedure done at home. At-home euthanasia is more costly, but we felt it would make it easier on Jessie --- and on us. She'd always hated being packed into the car and taken for vet visits, associated in her little mind, I suppose, with being prodded and pricked and sometimes left behind. We wanted her to die in peace, in her own bed, surrounded by familiar sounds and smells, and the touch of people she knew loved her.

The vet arrived the next morning at 11. Jessie had been sedated and was lying in her bed with the three of us around her on the floor. While the vet administered the drugs, we stroked her head and spoke her name and told her how we loved her life with us. Tears fell freely. Sun warmed the room. The air felt soft and strangely alive, as if the angels had come to join our circle of blessing.

Very soon her heart stopped beating. After a while, the vet assured us Jessie was gone. She packed up her bags and left. We lingered a few more minutes in the stillness, then the boys rose to their knees, gently lifted Jessie's body onto a cotton blanket, and wrapped her for burial with the tenderness of a father swaddling his newborn. We took her to a wooded area where a small grave had been dug, eased her gently into the ground, sprinkled water and flower petals over her body, and said a short prayer. It was a prayer of gratitude for life's gifts, and the last line rang like bells: "In all that they do, they give life!" That was our Jessie all right.

Afterward we came home and ate spaghetti with homemade meat sauce and looked at pictures and told stories of her antics, and remembered her faithful love. It was a sad day, but for all the memories rushing back, a good day. One of the best our family ever had.