In Memoriam - Mango: A girl's best friend

Mango: Approximately 2007-March 18, 2024

What do you say when you say goodbye to a companion who inspired you during some of the most formative moments of the last decade of your life? "Goodbye Mango. You were a good girl, and I will miss you." But that doesn't feel like enough. Let me share just a few of our highlights of the past decade-plus together.

Mango the Seminarian

Mango joined our pack when I was midway through seminary. She was by my side and hovering over me (literally, she was on my shoulder) during the drafting of many papers and sermons. When I had a shoulder surgery that went awry, she was my constant companion while I recuperated and drafted assignments with dictation software.

Pastor Mango

Exactly 10 years ago today, I submitted my ordination paper to the denomination's review committee. Mango escaped with me to a "secret location" where I sequestered myself for several days to crank out the volumes of pages needed to complete my requirements. Following acceptance of my paper, Mango accompanied me to my first call, living in a rooming house with her sister Kiwi, so that I didn't have to start my ministry alone. When I was ordained, Mango was there for the event, sporting a handmade crocheted alb and joining Supportive Spouse while he read a psalm proclaiming the wonder of creation. Mango also attended several worship services over the years, serving as the example of resurrection at Easter services and animal blessings.

Chaplain Mango

During the pandemic, when many of my pastoral visits occurred virtually, Mango took up the challenge and started participating in video visits with patients and their families. Oftentimes, care recipients would tell Mango things they hadn't said to me alone. My spiritual assessment tool I used with my patients was made up of the acronym from her name, a daily reminder of the connectedness of others and being rooted in something other than ourselves.

Mango the Friend

Over the years, Mango made countless visits to my parents, warming up slowly to my dad, a longtime lover of dogs, who's abilities had diminished over time, but he would always perk up and launch into story-telling, while stroking Mango's ear. Mango even won over my mom, who is more discerning. Throughout the past few years, Mango spent many hours snuggled up on mom's lap, while the two of them napped the afternoons away.

Mango the Attitude

I'd be remiss if I didn't get real for a moment and say that while Mango had many wonderful attributes, she was also a supreme pain in the butt with an outsized attitude and a stubborn streak surprisingly large for such a small creature. An accomplished escape artist, she was able to dig a hole under a fence and run more than a mile from home in a matter of a few minutes. For years, Mango sported a GPS collar that was nearly as large as her head. Not that it kept her home, but I was able to better track how far afield she had run. Once, she got as far as a middle school almost 2 miles from our home and back before I could manage more than a few blocks with an empty leash in my hands.

Mango the Inspiration

Probably the greatest gift Mango gave me was as an inspiration. She didn't just have a spiritual

transformation from the time she came to us as an emotionally wounded young dog. She physically changed appearance. In our earliest photos, Mango's ears were slack and her posture was submissive, her shoulders hunched and flinching at the smallest of movements. She would be frozen in obedience classes, too overwhelmed to absorb the lessons (it took her 6 months to feel comfortable enough around us to lay down). Yet after we told her for enough months that she was wonderful, she came to believe it herself - a spark lit in her eyes and her ears became pointed and erect. She carried herself with a confidence that couldn't have been imagined in those early months. The turning point seemed to have been when she had an expanding pellet surgically removed some months after joining our home. After we learned she had been shot, her reactions to loud noises made more sense.  One of the happiest days with her was the afternoon I came home from work and Mango ran to the bed and rolled over for a belly rub. The amount of confidence, combined with vulnerability, in that gesture brought me to tears.

Mango Forever

I cannot begin to capture what Mango meant to me in these words, nor do I expect anyone to get much out of my writing, but I am compelled to memorialize the girl who was so important in my life, as I suspect I was for her. She will forever be a part of my being. I will love Mango forever.

I've Moved!

Hi gang,

In case you check for updates here, rather than Facebook or other sites. I've been migrating my stuff over to a new blog hosting site at wordpress.com. Here's the latest posting: Thy people shall be my people.

I tried to keep my 'handle" mostly the same. You can find me at leftyforjesus.wordpress.com.

See you on the other side!

Lefty

Preparation Part 2

Those of you who "follow" this blog should know I'm considering moving from blogger to wordpress. I'm fiddling around with the software, etc. So it's not a done deal, but it seems to have a little more flexibility for posting on-the-go than Blogger has. Stay tuned.

Preparation

This has been a season of preparation. Earlier this fall, I prepared to meet with the committee who would decide whether I should be accepted by my denomination as a "Student in Discernment," a first step on a path to what I believe could be ordination.

Now I find myself preparing for Thanksgiving by taking time most days to note some small (or not-so-small) thing I am thankful for in my life. I am also preparing for the end of the semester by completing papers and projects. In addition, I decided a couple of weeks ago to apply for a merit scholarship at school, and now I am preparing to take the GREs next week by thinking about math equations that haven't crossed my mind in two decades.

I'm also preparing to go on my first international trip in nearly 25 years. This January, I'll be traveling to the Philippines for a two week "Global Justice" trip -- Global justice is a requirement for graduation. A trip to the Philippines is not. In anticipation of this trek, I've prepared physically by receiving more immunizations and preventive care for a two-week journey than most of the local inhabitants have likely had in a lifetime.

My other preparation is seeing if I can work with new technology to keep you posted once or twice while I'm gone about my journey. This is my fourth attempt at posting this via an old Palm Pilot and portable keyboard. I understand four times is a charm.

The great why

As I move through my seminary coursework, I run across variations of the same question with more and more frequency: Why? Why would a loving God “do” [fill in the blank with whichever injustice is on the questioner’s mind]? Why do bad things happen to good people? Why senseless wars? Why “evil” people? Why?

First, what I can say is that it’s not as if after you’ve paid a certain amount of tuition, you get led into a secret room and are given the answer to this burning question. Nope. No handbook. No secret decoder ring. When it comes to answers to questions like these, there isn’t much that’s dispensed at seminary that we can’t all work through on our own.

So, with that in mind, my response is solely my own. It’s been processed more as an outcome of my own heartache than any textbook. The answer might sound a little flip, and my apologies to anyone who is currently in deep pain and yearns for a different answer, but my response to the “Why would God do this?” is “It’s not God’s job.”

I know there are plenty of folks, some I love greatly, who are under the impression that God is the great dispenser of tangible gifts: money, sudden reversals of incurable diseases, jobs, mates, whatever. In this theological outlook, a person asks, and God gives or doesn’t give based on criteria beyond our understanding. No offense to people who take comfort in this way of living, but if that’s the case, God is a ginormous prick. I don’t care to spend my time in such company. It’s bad for my growth and it’s a bad precedent to set for an impressionable world.

So that leads to the question, what exactly is God’s job. That gets a little trickier. I heard a professor relay a scenario once, I don’t remember the particulars, but the upshot was something along the lines of, do you want a God who is not as powerful as some would lead us to believe, but is able to be present with us in our grief and suffering, or would you prefer an all-powerful God who is responsible for that grief and suffering?

There’s no right or wrong answer to this question, but how you might respond will likely have a great impact on your relationship with God and also with humanity. Why humanity, you might wonder? Well, it’s like this: Say you’re looking to help support the Kingdom of God here on Earth. If your idea of God is one who “allows” for war and suffering, then the Kingdom you are working toward is already here. If your idea of God is one who may not be able to deliver every desire, no matter how important it is for you as an individual, but this God is one who is willing to be present with you in times of trial, to bear witness in times of injustice, to feel with you the strong emotions of love…this is a Kingdom of God that you and I are able to participate in, in partnership with God, and in partnership with humanity.

While it doesn’t make the immediate pain of a particular situation any less, I’ve come to prefer a God of solidarity and compassion in the dark and lonely moments of our lives than to face the other kind of God in the dark alleys of my life.

In the Presence of God

For the past 11 or so years, rarely has a day gone by where at some point I haven’t looked at Merlin, my huge tough dog, stuck in a little white dog’s body and said, “You’re my favorite.” I uttered that familiar phrase for the last time on Wednesday when I took him in for emergency abdominal surgery. He was expected to survive the surgery, and he did, but afterward, he developed complications and died. The hole in my heart is massive, as I knew it would be. One doesn’t lose one’s favorite without going through a fair amount of pain. That’s part of the deal we make when human and pet form a bond and one is snatched from the other.

I could tell you about the heavy grief I’m feeling today, share my guilt that I didn’t see him one last time, describe the moments where I swear I see him for a fleeting moment out of the corner of my eye. But, I think these are universal things pet owners go through when their beloved dies. For many, this is nothing new. What I did think about today is my grandmother and I think there’s something instructive there for those of us who are younger and more mobile. Or for the people I cannot understand – non-pet-lovers.

Grandma Max (yes, her name was Max – it wasn’t short for anything, and heaven help the person who tried to call her Maxine or some other nonsense) was an animal lover extraordinaire. Her last pet was a Pekingese named Trampus, but she usually called him Tramp or Trampy. Grandma named many of her pets after characters from old TV Westerns – I don’t remember most of the other names, but there was also a Festus at one point, too. She and Tramp were quite the team. She took that little dog EVERYWHERE. I can’t begin to tell you the number of people who did double-takes when they realized the “toy” in the rear window of her car was real. This was well before the day of doggie seat belts or any such devices. Had it occurred to her that Trampy being in that spot was particularly dangerous, she would have never allowed him to do so.

Tramp was an incredibly spoiled dog. Never once in all his years did a bite of kibble pass his lips. Grandma cooked for him. Every meal. Every day. She would make him chicken or serve him hamburger. Grandpa used to say “that dog eats better than we do” and it was undeniably true. Oh, and Grandma fed him every morsel of food by hand. Every meal. Every day. The two of them, Grandma Max and Tramp, shared a level of intimacy that few of us will ever reach. They relied on each other. Neither could live without the other – Tramp wouldn’t eat if Grandma didn’t feed him; Grandma couldn’t function if she didn’t have Tramp to fuss over.

So after feeling the crushing grief of losing my beloved Merlin and fighting through some bouts of spontaneous tears, I find myself this afternoon thinking about my Grandma and by extension all the other grandmas out there who are suddenly much lonelier after the passing of their pet. About what it must have been like for her in the days after her beloved Trampy died. About the quiet where there was once jingling tags as he patrolled from room to room to look out the windows (using the custom-built step stools Grandma had made specifically for this purpose). About the little dog she’d see from the corner of her eye for many months after his passing. About all the time she had on her hands, when she was accustomed to using those hands to feed and brush and pet her Tramp for hours every day. Grandma’s own health was beginning to decline. Her vision wasn’t what it used to be. She was easily winded. She didn’t get out and about as she once had. Her world was becoming a much smaller place, and now the bright light in her life was dimmed.

Grandma continued to be an animal lover, although she never again had another pet. In the times when her health was most precarious and she would have occasion to hallucinate, they were pleasant visions – small children, puppies and kitties would reside on her pillow. They were a comfort to her. At one point, an uncle or a cousin gave grandma a small stuffed poodle. She named it “Annie” and kept it with her for the rest of her life. Beyond her life, actually. It was placed in her coffin to spend eternity with her. For some people, being an animal lover is something deeply embedded in their core being. After everything else has gone, the ability to reason or recognize loved ones, mobility, bodily control, there is a spark of life that ignites when in the presence of a beloved creature.

Animals have a therapeutic effect. Clergy don’t have to be enamored with critters themselves, but they must recognize that for some in their parish, being in the presence of a beloved pet in a time of need, or bringing in a therapy dog to a care setting, is not like being in the presence of God. It is being in the presence of God. A pox upon the pastor who interrupts a truly prayerful moment for something that is a mere imitation in the animal lover’s eyes.

My Godsons and My Family Promises

I'm reading Growing in the Life of Faith: Education and Christian Practices for class today. Overall, I find the book highly offensive with a narrow definition of Christianity that I simply cannot relate to. Of marriages like mine and my spouse's that's been holding its own for nearly two decades, despite the fact that only one of us is Christian, author Craig Dykstra manages to muster a lukewarm acknowledgement that "redemptive partnerships can be formed." Um, thanks, Craig.

Dykstra's comment comes within the chapter titled "Family Promises." Other nuggets of that chapter include his expansion of another individual's argument (Ronald Green's "Abortion and Promise-Keeping") that "Sexual intercourse is, in and of itself, implicitly promissory. Just by having intercourse, we make promises to any potential offspring of that action." I had to put my highlighter down for a moment when I got to that section.

However, there were instances within the chapter that did get me to think about a couple of important touch points in my life: my godsons. I actually have two godchildren: my sister's youngest boy and my cousin's son. They're both of an age that if they knew I was blogging about them, they would feel a little squeamish. Fortunately, I can't imagine either of them would bother to check out my blog. So, here's what I can say about the promises I made to "my boys."

I cannot say I could come remotely close to recalling the baptismal date for either boy. However, I do pray about them. Often. The day they were baptized was one day of their lives. The cords of love and familial obligation will last forever. That's not to say that I don't lift up thoughts and prayers for my other nieces, nephews and cousins' children...even a couple of grand-nieces. They're all special. They all give their middle-aged, intentionally childless auntie / cousin a pang in her heart when she thinks about them, which is pretty often. Daily, actually. I do believe there are family promises that are made when we bring a young 'un into the world. However, I also take umbrage that my "heathen" spouse is somehow less obligated to love "our kids" simply because he is not a Christian.

I look to my godsons and I think of my relationship with my own godmother. It was also one where we didn't reflect on the importance of my "baptismal birthday," nor did we see each other with much frequency for long stretches of our lives. Yet, despite our sometimes divergent paths, we were blessed to strengthen our connection in the months prior to her death from cancer. I wouldn't expect "my boys" to feel any obligation to be with me in my final hours. At least they may not be physically present. But if there is a part of me that is still cognizant of such things as I am preparing to cross over to the other side, they and the other important people in my life: my spouse, parents, siblings, cousins, nieces and nephews, friends who are loved so much that they have been forged into the family chain, and the saints who have gone before me, will be streaming into my heart and my heart will be pouring out to those whom I call family. Of that I can promise.