experience

The Sun, the Moon, and the Trap of Comparison

It has become incredibly easy to look at someone else’s life and quietly decide that you are somehow behind. Behind in success, behind in happiness, behind in parenting, behind in health, behind in just about everything. The internet has given us a front row seat to everyone’s highlight reel. We see the vacations, the perfectly decorated homes, the thriving businesses, the glowing smiles in family photos. What we don’t see are the quiet, messy, complicated parts of life that everyone carries behind the scenes. And yet, if we’re not careful, we start measuring our ordinary Tuesday afternoons against someone else’s carefully curated moments.

I came across a quote recently that stopped me long enough to really think about it: “Don’t compare your life to others. There’s no comparison between the sun and the moon. They shine when it’s their time.” It’s such a simple image, but the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. The sun and the moon were never meant to compete with each other. The sun doesn’t look at the moon lighting up the night sky and think it’s somehow falling behind. It doesn’t rush the horizon trying to prove it can shine brighter. And the moon doesn’t apologize for not lighting up the middle of the day. They simply show up when it’s their time.

Life has seasons that feel like bright sunshine. Things move forward easily. Plans fall into place. You feel productive, hopeful, and confident that everything is working the way it should. But life also has seasons that feel more like moonlight. Those are the quieter seasons. The slower ones. Sometimes they’re the seasons where you’re healing from something, learning something hard, facing uncertainty, or just trying to make it through the day without letting worry take over. Those seasons can feel uncomfortable, especially when everyone else seems to be standing in the sunlight.

But the truth is, the moon is just as necessary as the sun. The world needs both. We tend to celebrate the bright seasons in people’s lives — the accomplishments, the milestones, the moments when everything seems to be going right. What we rarely see are the quieter seasons where people are rebuilding, recovering, grieving, growing, or simply learning how to keep moving forward. Some of the most important growth in life happens in those darker skies. When things slow down enough for us to listen to ourselves. When life forces us to reevaluate what actually matters. When we learn patience, resilience, and grace in ways that sunny days never quite teach us.

Comparison assumes that everyone is living on the same timeline, but that has never really been true. Some people are standing in their sunrise years. Others are in the bright middle of the day when everything seems clear and certain. And some of us are walking through a quieter stretch where the light looks different. None of those seasons mean someone else is ahead. They simply mean it is their time to shine in a different way.

The sun and the moon never rush each other. They never compete for the same sky. They simply take their turn lighting it up. Maybe life works a little like that too. Maybe your season right now looks different from someone else’s, and maybe that’s exactly how it’s supposed to be. It doesn’t mean you’re behind or that you’ve somehow missed the moment when everything was supposed to happen. It might simply mean that right now you’re walking in the softer light of the moon, and there is still something beautiful about that kind of glow.

Eventually the sky shifts again. It always does. The sun rises, the moon returns, and both continue doing exactly what they were meant to do — shining when it’s their time.

Blessings y’all – Amy

Learning to Live With the Weather

For a long time I thought depression and anxiety were problems to solve. Something broken in me that I needed to fix or snap back together.

Like a puzzle with the right pieces hidden somewhere. If I just worked hard enough, prayed enough, exercised enough, organized enough, went through enough counseling, or “thought positively” enough, eventually I would arrive at the finish line where they no longer existed.

But that’s not really how it works.

Depression and anxiety aren’t always dragons to be slain. They’re more like weather patterns that move through your life. Sometimes the skies are clear and bright and everything feels easy. And sometimes the clouds roll in without warning and the air gets heavy and dark.

For a long time I kept trying to conquer the storm.

I thought if I could just be stronger, or more disciplined, or somehow “fix” myself, the clouds would disappear for good. When they didn’t, I felt like I was failing some invisible test everyone else seemed to be passing.

But somewhere along the way I realized something important.

This isn’t something I conquer. It’s something I learn to live with.

Some days the sky is blue and the sun is warm and I move through life easily. I laugh, I create, I plan, I feel hopeful. Those days remind me that the storm isn’t permanent. But other days the clouds roll in again. Anxiety hums quietly in the background of everything. Depression makes even small things feel heavy. Getting through the day can feel like walking through deep water. Dealing with other humans, especially at work, can feel insurmountable.

And those are the days when I have to remind myself that storms are not personal failures.

They are just weather.

I’ve learned that living with depression and anxiety isn’t about eliminating the storms. It’s about learning how to ride them out without believing they will last forever.

Some days that means doing the smallest things and counting them as victories.

Getting out of bed.

Taking a walk.

Answering one email.

Not yelling at someone who probably deserves it and more importantly not taking it out on someone who definitely doesn’t deserve it.

Small things that other people might not even notice can feel like climbing mountains on the hard days.

And that’s okay.

One of the greatest gifts through these storms has been having someone who loves me through it. Someone who doesn’t expect me to always be sunny and easy and carefree. Someone who understands that sometimes the weather in my mind changes without warning.

Someone who stays anyway. Tim is amazing that way.

There is a quiet kind of grace in being loved through your storms. Not fixed. Not judged. Not told to simply “snap out of it.” Just loved — patiently and steadily — while the clouds pass through.

That kind of love doesn’t erase depression or anxiety.

But it makes the storms easier to weather.

Over time I’ve stopped measuring my life by how often the clouds appear. Instead, I’m learning to measure it by how I move through them. By the resilience that grows quietly inside the hard seasons. By the compassion I’ve learned for myself and for others who are fighting battles no one else can see. I’ve also learned it’s ok to cry and feel the things I feel – no one else has to understand the storm raging inside me.

The truth is, many people are walking through storms we know nothing about. Depression and anxiety are invisible companions for millions of people. Some days they whisper. Some days they roar. But they do not define the whole landscape of a life.

They are just part of the weather.

And like all weather, they change.

The sun returns eventually.

The air clears.

The world feels lighter again.

Living with depression and anxiety has taught me something I might never have learned otherwise: strength isn’t always loud or heroic.

Sometimes strength is simply surviving.

Staying in the middle of the storm.

Staying in the middle of the uncertainty.

Staying long enough to see the sky clear again.

And if you’re someone who walks through these storms too, I hope you know this:

You are not broken.

You are not weak.

You are simply learning how to live with the weather.

And that is a kind of courage the world doesn’t talk about nearly enough. And isn’t nearly patient enough with.

Blessings y’all – Amy

The Waiting Room No One Talks About

There is a particular kind of anxiety that lives in the space between symptoms and answers.

It isn’t the sharp panic of a diagnosis. It isn’t even the strange relief that can come when someone finally names the problem and a plan begins. It’s something quieter and more unsettling. It’s the long hallway between “something isn’t right” and “here’s what it is.”

Sometimes that hallway feels endless.

For me, it started small enough that I ignored it.

My foot wouldn’t lift the way it should when I walked. Instead of clearing the floor smoothly, it began slapping the ground. At first I assumed I had stepped wrong or pulled a muscle. Maybe I had been sitting too long. Maybe it would go away in a day or two.

But it didn’t.

Walking suddenly required concentration. Something that had always been automatic now demanded attention. I found myself thinking about every step: lift, move, step. It felt strange to be aware of something my body had done effortlessly for decades.

Then came the numbness.

It started in my foot and slowly crept into my lower leg. It wasn’t quite the pins-and-needles feeling of a limb that had fallen asleep. It was more like a dull, unsettling loss of sensation that didn’t behave the way it should. Sometimes it would fade a little, sometimes it felt stronger, but it never really disappeared.

Just when I had started convincing myself it must be something simple — maybe a pinched nerve in my back — the numbness appeared in my arm too.

That’s when fear really moved in.

I made the appointment confident that modern medicine — with all its scans and tests and specialists — would surely find the cause. I sat in exam rooms while doctors studied images and reports.

I expected the moment when someone would say, “Here’s what we’re seeing.”

Except sometimes that moment doesn’t come.

Instead of answers, what I kept hearing was, “Let’s run one more test.”

Another scan. Another appointment. Another specialist. Each time I walked in hoping this would be the visit where someone finally connected the dots. And each time I left with the same thing — not answers, but the next step in the search.

None of the doctors seemed alarmed, but none of them could quite explain it either. The tests ruled things out, but they didn’t quite explain what was happening.

And so the investigation continued.

One more test. One more scan. One more appointment.

And suddenly my mind started filling in all the blanks medicine could not.

Is this serious? Is it getting worse? Did we miss something? Did I wait too long?

What if this is the beginning of something bigger?

My body suddenly felt like a place I didn’t completely trust anymore. Every sensation became something to analyze. Every twitch, ache, or strange feeling felt like a possible clue. I noticed things I had never noticed before — the way my foot landed when I walked, the way my leg felt climbing stairs, the way my hand tingled if I rested my arm too long.

Because no one had given the story a clear ending yet, my mind kept writing its own versions.

Some of them were frightening.

The hardest part hasn’t always been the symptoms themselves. It has been the uncertainty. Humans are remarkably capable of facing difficult things when we understand them. Give us a diagnosis — even a hard one — and we can begin building a plan. We can research, prepare, adapt, fight.

But uncertainty leaves me suspended.

People around me try to reassure me with the best of intentions. “I’m sure it’s nothing.” “They will find it.” “Try not to worry.”

But worry is exactly what grows in unanswered space.

I find myself reading scan reports like they’re written in a secret language I’m trying to decode. I notice every new sensation in my body. I pay attention to my steps, my balance, the way my limbs feel throughout the day.

Sometimes I even start questioning myself.

Maybe I’m exaggerating.

Maybe it’s stress.

Maybe I should just ignore it.

But my body keeps reminding me that something changed.

So I wait.

I wait for the next appointment, the next test, the next specialist. I wait for the phone call that might finally bring clarity. I wait for the moment when the puzzle pieces come together and someone says, “Here’s what’s happening.”

Waiting can be exhausting.

But there is also something I’m slowly learning in this season: uncertainty does not automatically mean catastrophe. Bodies are complicated. Medicine is complicated. Sometimes the path to answers simply takes time — more imaging, more observation, more pieces of the puzzle.

In the meantime, life keeps moving.

There are still ordinary moments — work never stops, conversations at the dinner table, laughter in the living room, the steady rhythm of daily life. Those small moments become anchors when the bigger questions feel overwhelming.

I’m learning that fear thrives in isolation, but uncertainty becomes more manageable when it’s shared — with my husband, with family, with friends, or even writing about it here.

And slowly, one appointment at a time, the picture will likely become clearer.

Maybe the tests will eventually reveal the cause. Maybe the symptoms will settle and fade. Maybe the doctors will piece together the clues that once seemed scattered.

But for now, I’m living in the waiting room no one talks about — the space between not knowing and understanding.

And even in the middle of unanswered questions, I’m still moving forward.

Sometimes carefully. Sometimes anxiously. Sometimes concentrating on every single step.

But moving forward all the same.

One day, one test, one conversation closer to clarity.

Blessings ya’ll – Amy

Sewing My Way to Sanity

Quilting started as a hobby. It has since evolved into emotional regulation… and an entirely unhinged fabric acquisition strategy.

When my brain feels loud and life feels like it’s happening all at once, quilting is the one thing that reliably quiets everything down. Measuring, cutting, piecing, pressing—my thoughts don’t stand a chance against a quarter-inch seam allowance.

Quilting demands just enough focus to keep me out of my own head.

You can’t spiral while trying to line up points. You can’t overthink when the fabric is actively trying to slide away from you. Quilting insists on presence, whether you’re ready for it or not.

And it’s physical in the best way.

The weight of folded fabric. The snick of the rotary cutter. The iron hissing like it’s judging you. The steady hum of the machine. It’s impossible to doom-scroll while quilting—which is unfortunate for my phone, but excellent for my nervous system.

Quilting is different than other crafts.

This isn’t instant gratification. Quilts take time. Weeks. Months. Sometimes years. Quilting teaches patience through mild frustration and repeated seam ripping. It also teaches acceptance—because at some point you decide that seam is close enough and move on with your life.

Other crafts chase perfection. Quilting gently whispers, “No one will see that once it’s quilted.”

And then there’s the fabric.

I do not have a fabric stash. I have a fabric collection. A carefully curated, emotionally significant archive of potential futures. Each piece has a purpose. Not a plan—a purpose. There is a difference.

Fabric hoarding is not about excess. It’s about preparedness.

What if I need it for this quilt? What if I never find it again? What if I don’t use it for five years but then suddenly it’s PERFECT? These are valid concerns and I will not be taking questions at this time.

Quilting humbles you regularly.

You sew something wrong. You seam rip it. You sew it wrong again. You question all your life choices. Then somehow, miraculously, it comes together. Quilting is basically resilience training with cotton.

But here’s the thing—it works.

Some days I quilt for joy.

Some days I quilt because my emotions are doing parkour.

Some days I quilt because keeping a pile of fabric organized feels easier than organizing my thoughts.

Quilting doesn’t fix everything.

But it gives my hands something steady to do while my brain sorts itself out. It reminds me that progress can be slow and still be progress. That messy pieces can become something beautiful. That it’s okay to pause, adjust, and keep going.

I didn’t mean to sew my way to sanity.

But here I am—surrounded by fabric, half-finished quilts, and the quiet comfort of knowing that if nothing else makes sense today, I can always line up another seam.

And honestly?

That—and maybe just one more yard of fabric—is enough.

Blessings y’all – Amy

What’s Changed in 19 Years…

Today would have been my 19th wedding anniversary with Fred.

That sentence still lands with weight.

Not because I am stuck there. Not because I want to go back. But because love leaves fingerprints on time, and some dates never become neutral again.

Nineteen years ago, I married a man who shaped me. We built a life in the way couples do—messy, hopeful, unfinished. We grew up together. We learned who we were by learning how to be married. And when he died, that chapter didn’t close neatly. It ended mid-sentence.

Grief doesn’t respect calendars, but anniversaries have a way of knocking anyway.

What anchors me on days like today is gratitude.

Because the love we shared didn’t disappear with him. It lives on in the children he shared with me, in the family we built together, in the relationships and roots that still surround my life. I am profoundly grateful for that legacy. For the laughter that still sounds like him. For the people who carry pieces of him forward without even realizing it. For the fact I can still see his smile in our children’s. He didn’t just leave me memories—he left me a family.

And here’s the part that still feels strange to say out loud: I am deeply, fully, undeniably in love with Tim.

Not instead of loving my Fred.

Not in competition with that love.

Just… also.

For a long time, I thought love worked like a single chair—you vacate it, or you sit in it. One at a time. I didn’t understand that love is more like a house. Rooms get added. Some doors stay closed most days, but they’re still there.

Today is one of those days when an old door creaks open.

I can miss the man I lost and still laugh with the man I married.

I can honor a marriage that ended in death and still be fiercely committed to the one I’m in now.

I can feel the ache of “what would have been” without wishing away what is.

Loving my Tim does not erase my past. And remembering my Fred does not diminish my present.

That’s the juxtaposition people don’t talk about enough—the quiet coexistence.

Tim didn’t replace Fred. He met me after loss reshaped me. He loves a woman who knows how fragile life is, how precious ordinary days are, how deeply commitment can root itself in the bones. He loves me with patience on days like today, when the calendar carries more emotional weight than usual. And that love is not smaller because it came later. If anything, it is more intentional.

Grief taught me that love is not scarce. It expands. It stretches. It surprises you.

So today, I hold both truths.

I remember the man I married nineteen years ago, with gratitude—for our life, for our children, for the family he left behind that still carries me forward.

And I choose the man I wake up next to now, with joy, loyalty, and a full heart.

Both can be true.

Both are true.

And that doesn’t make love complicated.

It makes it real.

Blessings y’all – Amy

The Joys of Being a Brand-New Mimi

I’ve only been a Mimi for a short time—just four months—but somehow it already feels like a part of me that’s always existed.

Being a brand-new Mimi is a quiet kind of joy. It’s the joy of learning her rhythms, her sounds, the way her face lights up when she recognizes me. It’s lighting up like I won the lottery when a text comes in with a new video or picture. It’s realizing that even at four months old when I visit she knows exactly who I am—and that I am safe, familiar, and love her beyond measure.

There is something incredibly grounding about holding a baby who fits perfectly in the crook of your arm. About rocking her while the world slows down just enough to breathe again. In those moments, nothing else matters—not the noise, not the stress, not the endless mental lists. Just her steady breathing and the way her tiny fingers curl around mine.

At four months, everything is new. Her curiosity is wide open, and I love my front-row seat to the wonder. I get to hear the first belly laughs, the wide-eyed fascination with ordinary things, the serious concentration as she studies the world around her. Being her Mimi means I get to marvel alongside her.

This season comes with a beautiful freedom. I don’t carry the weight of being her parent—but I carry the privilege of loving her deeply. I get to support, to soothe, to show up without pressure. I get to be present in a way that feels both intentional and light. I get to watch my kids thrive as parents and be so proud of how they love and shape this little person.

There is also something unexpectedly healing about this role. Becoming a Mimi has softened parts of me I didn’t realize were still holding tension. It has reminded me that love doesn’t have to be earned or managed—it can simply be given.

I know this stage will pass quickly. Four months will turn into crawling, then walking, then running. But right now, in this small and fleeting season, I’m soaking it in—the weight of her in my arms, the sound of her laugh, the way being her Mimi feels like a gift wrapped in the quiet moments.

Being a brand-new Mimi has already changed me. And I have a feeling this joy is only just beginning.

Blessing Y’all – Amy

Welcome To The Jungle…The Concrete Jungle That Is!

Coming from Texas, New York City hit me like a wall of sound. At home, the nights are wide open and quiet—just cicadas buzzing in the heat, the hum of a porch fan, maybe the crackle of mesquite wood in the fire pit. Weekends smell like barbecue drifting from the neighbor’s backyard, and the pace of life is as steady as a two-lane road stretching toward the horizon.

In Manhattan, silence doesn’t exist. Horns blare in constant argument, buses hiss as they brake, and the subway rumbles below like a restless beast. Layered over it all are voices—thousands of them—clashing, laughing, bargaining, shouting in languages I couldn’t always place. The city doesn’t hum—it roars. And stepping into it, I felt like I’d been dropped into the middle of a song that never stops playing.

The Smells of the City

Texas air is familiar: mesquite smoke, cut grass, fresh rain on dust, the sweet smell of bluebonnets in spring. New York, though, is a kaleidoscope of scents that change block by block. On one corner, a halal cart fills the air with cumin and sizzling lamb. Walk a little farther, and roasted nuts or a hot pretzel tempt you. Then, just as suddenly, the sharp tang of garbage bags waiting for pickup crashes in. But even that fades the moment a bagel shop door opens, releasing the warmth of toasted sesame and fresh bread. It’s chaotic, sometimes foul, sometimes heavenly, but never dull.

The Rat Race in Motion

In Texas, people wave at strangers on backroads, traffic slows behind tractors, and “running late” usually means you stopped to chat somewhere. New York doesn’t have time for that. The sidewalks churn like a stampede. Before the crosswalk light even changes, crowds surge into the street, weaving between cabs with coffees in hand. At first, I hung back—hesitant, cautious. But soon I matched their stride, dodging traffic like it was second nature. The city pulls you into its rhythm whether you’re ready or not.

Finding My Place in the Chaos

Back home, solitude is easy. Step outside at night and the sky opens, stars scattered wide above dark fields. In New York, solitude is impossible—but community is everywhere. Packed shoulder to shoulder on a subway car, sharing an eye-roll at a train delay, or laughing when a cab screeches too close—it felt raw and unfiltered, but real. In its own way, the city made me feel less alone than an empty Texas backroad ever could.

Why It Stays With Me

New York is relentless. It doesn’t slow down, doesn’t soften its edges, doesn’t stop for anyone to catch their breath. But for a Texan used to space, stillness, and skies that seem to go on forever, the chaos was intoxicating. It rewired my pulse to its own restless beat.

New York doesn’t politely invite you to love it—it dares you. And as much as I’ll always cherish the wide skies, the slow drawl of a summer evening, and the comforting smell of barbecue smoke drifting through the Texas air, I know I’ll take that dare again.

When Did We Stop Listening?

I almost never watch the news. Honestly, I can’t stand it.

But this week, during an hour-long nail appointment, the television was on. In that short time, I heard stories of a shooting at an ICE facility in Dallas, a semi-truck being pursued by police in Anaheim, and a stabbing at a school on the East Coast. And of course, you’d have to be living under a rock not to have heard about the Charlie Kirk shooting.

It struck me how much heaviness, violence, and grief can fill just sixty minutes of airtime. For me, that’s exactly why I usually avoid tuning in. Still, the stories linger, and they’ve left me chewing on something deeper: when did we stop listening?

Over the last twenty plus years, we’ve gotten very good at talking. With social media, 24-hour news, and endless platforms, everyone has a microphone, and everyone wants to be heard. But somewhere along the way, listening seems to have fallen out of practice.

When did we stop breaking bread with friends and neighbors and really trying to put ourselves in someone else’s shoes? Right, left, polka dot, or rainbow—it doesn’t matter the label. When did our brains stop stretching to see the world from another vantage point? When did the sound of our individual voices grow louder than the sound of voices bonded together—as Americans, as human beings, as family by blood or by choice?

Lately, I’ve struggled most with understanding the tragedy around Charlie Kirk. The things I’ve learned about him since his death make me wish I’d paid more attention before. But more than that, I keep coming back to his widow. Watching her carry herself with such strength in public, knowing the depth of pain and grief she must be enduring, moves me deeply. I imagine how all she must want is to pull the covers over her head and wish it all away.

And I find myself asking: when did the world become a place where taking another person’s life was seen as an acceptable way of dealing with conflict? When did celebrating the loss of someone’s husband and father become okay?

Maybe it’s age. Maybe it’s the season of life I’m in. But I feel like I see things through different glasses now. I long for a time when I could keep my babies close and not have to trust this cruel world to spare them. These days, my heart aches as I wonder where all of this is headed.

I don’t have tidy answers. But I do know this: the more cruelty I see, the more convinced I become that compassion is the only way forward. Listening doesn’t mean agreeing. It doesn’t mean silencing your own beliefs. It means making space, honoring another perspective, and remembering that life is fragile, sacred, and shared.

Maybe the first step is simple. Notice how much we talk. Notice how little we listen. And choose, in small ways, to listen again.

Because the sound of voices joined together—not in anger, not in argument, but in genuine listening—is still one of the most powerful sounds in the world.

Blessings Y’all. Pray for each other and our country.

Amy

Another Goodbye, A Closing, and A New Year

This one has been bouncing around in my brain the last few weeks and I’ve been trying to sort through so many emotions. Figure I’ll sort it out here like I always do lol. The Irving house finally found its new owners. About a week ago another tumor took our sweet Paris. And inexplicably a new year is upon us.

We signed the papers on the Irving house four years to the day of when I unpacked the last box, hung the last picture, and posted the before and after video of the renovation from moving into Turtle Summit. Funny sometimes how God’s timing works. I’ve been trying to put my mind around the emotions there, cause there are some, but can’t quite get there. When I reflect back on who I was then…man.

Four years ago I was so angry. So tired. So overwhelmed. So afraid. If I dared to crack open one of my prayer journals I can almost promise you those prayers read something like “give me my life back” or “rewind the clock”. My children were leaving home, my husband was gone, and I had absolutely no idea who I was. And quite frankly I was crazy. Out of my mind flipping crazy. I look back on that person and wonder where she came from and thank God every day that he put the right tools and people in my path to get me through.

As I look around today? My list of blessings is as overwhelming as that list of pain and sorrow was. A home I never could have dreamed this small town girl would ever have. A man I adore who loves me beyond measure. A job that challenges me and pushes me to keep growing even when I’d like a minute to breathe.

Last weekend we said goodbye to another of our fur babies. She was older but we weren’t ready. She had a tumor in her ear that they couldn’t promise us wasn’t in her brain. She was in pain and not herself. We kept the promise we made each other not to prolong our babies lives for our own inability to say goodbye. But less than three months after losing Hope it just made the grief hole rip open again. The energy in the house has shifted again and the three remaining girls are tying to find a new rhythm. They are very clingy to us and hate when we leave the house.

Tim and I’s word for 2025 is “intentional”. So often we find ourselves at the end of a week, month, or year having just responded to all that came at us instead of acting intentionally towards our goals. We want to work on the goals we have set and live life on our terms. I think some of that is a result of seeing what we accomplished when we set our mind to it with the house. Not sure. We just know that as we heal from some of what 2024 took from us and embrace some of what it gave us we have big plans.

I am waking up at night with my mind and my heart racing. Anxiety coursing through me that I can’t identify. I thought it was the house. But with that settled not sure what it is. Work is out of control busy so maybe it’s that. But I know that if I turn it over to God and just lift it in prayer it’ll resolve itself in time. Just takes the one thing hardest for me – faith.

What are you reflecting on in as we close out 2024?

—Amy

Another Goodbye is Upon Us

Someone said to me today that pre-grieving is as hard as the grieving can be. While I had never heard the phrase “pre-grieving” it certainly fit. Knowing what’s coming, agonizing on if you are making the right decision, if the time is right, knowing how much it’s going to hurt…it all sucks.

The time has come that we have to say goodbye to Hope. Tomorrow we’ll take her to the vet and send her home to God where she won’t be in pain anymore. While I know she has quite the host of angels waiting to receive her my heart is still breaking.

Hope is the youngest of our babies. If I really dwell on the unfairness of it all that’s the thing that hits me the most. We have three senior citizen dogs and our youngest girl got aggressive non-treatable cancer. Like WTF.

From the day we got her Hope’s role has fit her name. She gave us hope. She came into our life to fill the hole left when we lost Tigre. The kids wouldn’t let me name her Faith or Love from 1 Corinthians 13:13: “And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.” So I named her Hope.

She has always had human tendencies. She has never been one for just a belly rub. She has to hug you. Both arms around your neck hug you before she is content. She sits up in “her” chair on her butt like a human. She has never ever realized her own size…she’ll crawl into your lap like she is a five pound chihuahua instead of an eighty pound overgrown love mutt. She’ll sneak under the covers in bed with you at night and curl up oh so tight only to run you off the bed spread across half of it in the middle of the night – running in her sleep no less.

I read something recently speculating on what a dogs’ purpose is on this earth. It is to remind us humans that love is supposed to be easy. Unconditional, all consuming, and with the unadulterated joy that comes to a dog when we walk through the door. It’s us humans that make it hard. Dogs like Hope are especially good at their job. All she ever needed was a piece of human food snuck under the table (cherry tomatoes are her favorite!), a hug, a lap to sleep in, or a car ride with her ears flapping and her tongue wagging. Or to wrestle with her sister over who got to get to me first when I walked in the door.

So how do you say goodbye? How do you look into those big brown eyes and tell her it’s ok to let go? That you’ll be ok even when at that moment you aren’t sure you will be? That’s how I will love her the way she has always loved me. Selflessly and deeply. I don’t want her to hurt anymore. I want her to run and roll and play and feel no pain. My heart will carry her with me for the rest of my days. I’ll console her sisters for many many weeks to come – especially Lilah. I’ll bury my face in her blanket and seek comfort from her smell until it fades.

I believe in heaven and I believe with all my heart that the angels who sent her to heal my broken heart after Tigre left us are making ready her place with them. I believe she’ll be free of pain. I am deeply grateful that God made the pieces fall in place on our move to allow her final days to be spent someplace where she had a yard to run and play in and be a dog instead of the way she’s had to live the last four years in the backyard at the other house. I’m grateful for these last core memories of her. More than I can even put into words.

So I’ll sign off now and soak up these last hours of Hope snuggles. Thanks for indulging my rambling. And go grab and extra hug from your own babies for me. Life is precious and it goes too damn fast.

Blessings – Amy