kindness

My beloved dog, Otis, has gone away. His passing was abrupt, unexpected, and painfully hard. As I walk through the initial grief that rolls over me in waves, I have been tenuously holding on to a phrase that a friend posted on my Facebook wall: "Be kind to yourself, and patient." Sometimes I think of how he suffered at the end, or feel guilty about the times I chose to watch TV rather than take him for a walk, or I plan out how I will take him camping or hiking with me and then stop short, breathless with the realization that he will not do these things ever again. I have to stop myself and think, "Stephanie, be kind to yourself. Be patient. Time will allow you to think of him with less pain and more joy." It's raw and real… this grief that tears at me. I would not give it up for anything, because it means I loved him truly and well, that Otis will not be forgotten.

Today, I dragged myself out of bed, dreading the thought that I would be going with my counseling class to a child development center for observations of preschool children. It seemed too hard to put on a game face for it. I repeated my new mantra to myself and convinced myself to go. When we did finally begin our observations, I found myself standing on the playground with a teacher, her student, and his father. They were discussing the fireworks they had observed the night before; I stood apart, detached. Abruptly the teacher noticed something written on the boy's hand and asked about it. The boy grimaced and said, "My dad wrote it. It's because I stayed up too late last night." His father reminded him, "You are grumpy without sleep. Remember this!" I looked at the boy's hand, and teared up as I read:

Please be kind.

Thank you, Lord, for these gentle, unexpected reminders, these phrases and friends who help me to continue on this path. I will be kind to myself as I go.