I always knew the day would come.
We said goodbye to our collie, Prince, on Friday, Oct. 11. At the beginning of that week, he’d had at least one seizure, probably a couple of them — mini strokes.
He couldn’t stand without help. And when he shook himself — a habit dogs have, like people reflexively straightening their clothes after sitting — he fell over.
When I made the appointment with the veterinarian for that Friday, I wasn’t sure that Prince would last that long. But he did. Not only did he last, he even got stronger during the week.
He wasn’t as strong as he used to be, of course, but he could walk without falling over after I helped him down the back steps of our house. He could make it all the way around our house and into the field behind it on his own power.
By the time that Friday came, I was optimistic. Maybe we had a few months yet. New medications, a little extra TLC … we could do it!
I made my case to the vet, and she listened patiently, nodding her head. Then she examined Prince. She checked his joints, his eyes and ears, listened to his heart. Then she spoke slowly and softly.
“I’m glad he’s rebounding a bit. We could give him steroids to reduce swelling. But it’s only a matter of time. He’s lived a long life — longer than lots of collies. But he’s in distress, and these seizures are going to get more frequent and more intense.”
All week, I’d been silently praying a version of the commendation prayer from the funeral liturgy: “Grant us grace to entrust our Prince to your never-failing care.”
I’ve thought about grace a lot since Oct. 11.
In the morning when I’m startled that Prince isn’t on his bed in the dining room.
When Daisy, our rescue collie, looks disoriented on our walks. Walking on my left like she always did when Prince was on my right, like a spouse still sleeping on her own side of the bed.
When the neighbors come out and ask “Where’s Prince?” and look stricken when I tell the story and thank them for asking.
Sometimes ignorance is grace. Sometimes the hope that springs from ignorance allows us the strength to do what we need to do without breaking. Could I have even driven to the vet that Friday if I knew we would be coming home without him?
Yes, ignorance is grace. Hope is grace. Even false hope.
But grace is also someone who listens patiently and compassionately to the twisting rationales of false hope. Who understands the weight of her words and swallows the lump in her throat before she speaks — not to prove she is right, or to silence someone who disagrees. Just because it’s the truth, even if she doesn’t want it to be true, either.
And grace is what allows us to hear without becoming defensive. Without arguing, or debating, trying to make the case one more time and keep the truth at bay.
All of it is grace. And grace is what we so desperately need today, as we bicker and argue on the brink of the unthinkable — clinging to our ignorance and a false hope long after it has served its purpose. Delaying the inevitable, which also includes the peace of knowing we have done the right thing.
Yes, I always knew the day would come. But I didn’t know where the strength to meet it would come from.
While the vet was spelling out the situation and laying out options, I was looking into Prince’s eyes. He’d stuck his long collie nose into my hands. My heart was in turmoil, the rooming was spinning behind my tears, but his eyes were clear and brown and unwavering, filled with trust and love.
I looked at my wife, and then at the vet struggling to say what needed to be said before her voice trailed off.
Here I was, surrounded by grace. It filled the room. Everyone was a part of it. After a moment, I looked at my wife again, and then we kind of nodded. “Yes, it’s time.”
No, grace didn’t make it hurt any less. Grace isn’t a ticket out of grief or pain. But pain is a funny thing. One pain tells us we’re hurt, and another pain means that healing is beginning.
The trick is to know which is which. And for that, I pray again, “Grant us grace, O Lord …”
The Rev. Charles H. Oberkehr is pastor of Trinity Lutheran Church in New Holland.
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