“It’s congestive heart failure,” the veterinary cardiologist said. (Before last month, I was blissfully unaware that such specialists existed.) A leaky mitral valve has finally reached its tipping point, and my sweet little companion of eight years is very sick.

Sometimes, he’s himself. He still barks at the UPS boys-in-brown, and at the twin Boston terriers who parade their sleepy owner past our window each morning. He eats well, and lets me know when it’s time to go outside.

But in spite of regular doses of very expensive medicine, he’s not getting measurably better. His choking, rattling cough catches us both off guard several times a day and in the wee hours of the morning, and I’m helpless to soothe it. When he lies still in my lap I can feel his heart thumping none-too-calmly in his thin, heaving chest.

So I’m learning to let go.

I can’t imagine my house without the sound of his feet on the hardwood floor, or the sofa minus his silky self stretched across the back of it. It will be strange to not be followed into the bathroom, or to not have to shoo him away from licking my wet feet when I step out of the shower. It will be sad not to wake up on icy mornings and feel his weight plastered warmly against my spine, having maneuvered oh-so-stealthily northward from my feet once I drifted off to sleep.

I’m trying to adjust to the reality of losing him, but honestly, I’m not making much headway. I’m afraid. I’ve come to rely on the sweet comfort of his presence. I don’t want to give him up, but the choice will not be mine.

Isn’t that just like life? So much we can’t command, and didn’t expect. Lots of uncertainty. Countless opportunities to relinquish our tightening grip, and to trust the hand that grips us. Even with practice, we never get much better at it. But I’m trying. I really am.

God, help me to let go of what You would have me release, and cling only to that to which You would have me cling. Clarify for me the difference between the two. May the way I spend this day be a pleasing aroma to You. Let its altars be placed closer together, not farther apart. Teach me to order and savor the day so that at its end I will have loved You – and others – well. Amen.

Though He brings grief, he will show compassion, so great is his unfailing love. (Lamentations 3:32, NASB)

© Leigh McLeroy, 2006