The Walking Stick Journal
Stepping Stones of Transformation
An Unfolding Manuscript
by
C. D. Baker
Chapter Fifteen: Goodbye Dakota
Sometimes we let go and sometimes things are taken. When an object of love is taken, we are reminded of how little control we have.
The question is whether we have lost ALL that we once had. Is it possible that in losing what we have known, we gain something altogether unexpected. Does love transfigure loss like that? Does love give new life to loss?
***
Fall, 2021
Bill’s getting coffee and I’m settling in my chair wondering how to get through what’s coming.
“So you were in the Outer Banks and Virginia again?” Bill sat, smiling.
“Yeah. It was amazing to sit by the ocean under the Milky Way. Somehow it reassured me about God’s gentle oversight from beyond the stars. All my troubles felt so small.
And then I was on my Virginia mountain looking out across that magnificent landscape.” I closed my eyes, remembering. “The expanse of silence…so still and solid under my feet…it felt like a timeless reliability. Hard to put words to it, but it was all a very real comfort.” I tap my coffee cup. “And it reminded me that I’m not in control of much.”
Bill sets down his coffee. “Then what’s troubling you?”
A lump fills my throat. “I buried Dakota this week.” I take a slow breath, then hand Bill my phone to see some pictures. “I loved that dog.” Chin quivering, I say, “I really miss him.”
Bill moves through the pictures slowly, respectfully. “I remember how you jumped in a flooding creek to save him last year.” He looks at me. “Your loneliness is historical, but you welcomed Dakota in and he was your joy.”
I nod, eyes blurred.
He hands back my phone. “You’ve not experienced many forms of attachment, and so he was your security, too.” Bill pauses. “I know that sounds strange about a dog, but they mean something to us.”
I wipe my eyes with the heels of my palms, nodding. “Security? Sounds weird.”
We sit, silently.
I blow my nose. “I actually read a Bible verse from Colossians over his grave. It’s about how all things are made by God, and for him, and are in him. When I finished, I heard an inner voice ask if I believed that, and I answered, ‘yes.’ Then it hit me that Dakota is included in the ‘all things.'”
I nod to myself. “And then another thought came. It was like the Holy Spirit said, ‘If that little creature was important to you, then he’s certainly important to me.’ That got to me. It was a real comfort.”
Bill seems to feel my melancholy. “I remember you telling me how you’ve had to carry him up the steps lately, and how you felt his heart beating against your own.”
I can feel the warmth of Dakota’s ailing body against mine. I start chewing on my bottom lip.
“Dakota was a spiritual experience.” Bill leans forward. “Through him you felt what authentic connection is.”
I let that settle in for a moment and exhale a shaky breath.
“You know, the love that you feel for Dakota is a way of experiencing how God feels toward you.”
Wouldn’t that be something. “Maybe.”
“Not maybe.”
I take a sip of strong coffee. “Those memories are powerful, but right now I feel sick.”
Bill settles back. “Touching the pain allows us to accept the loss without losing the love. If we don’t actually touch the pain, we don’t hold the beauty that was Dakota.”
I pick some lint off my flannel shirt, thinking. Dare I admit this? “Well…the whole thing makes me feel anxious, too. I understand the grief, but not the anxiety.”
Bill folds his hands, thinking. “You realize that you’re processing this fresh loss along with a very heavy load of other things. You’re being stressed at every level.” He then says, “I suspect that losing him reminds you of your lack of control. That’s been a hard thing for you to face all along.”
That makes sense.
“And I also suspect that you’re afraid that you will now lose him forever.”
The thought of that summons an audible groan from down deep. A long merciful silence follows.
“I want you to reflect on all of the ways that your little friend has awakened you, especially how he awakened you to your humanity.”
I let that settle for a moment, then answer, “Somehow I could just ‘be’ with him.”
“Your friend showed you that you have the ability to attach to another, and to receive the comfort of that attachment. He showed you your own capacity for love. Can you see this?”
I wait.
“His life helped you feel more human.”
I bite my lip.
“You have denied your humanity for so long, but the truth is that you are very human after all.” Bill smiles and asks to see Dakota’s pictures again. He then looks at me. “You experienced a sense of oneness, even completeness with him. And that feeling will remain.” He hands me back my phone. “Treasure how Dakota has left you; he was God’s gift at a good time and he’s not going anywhere.”
Taking a deep, settling breath, I say, “I picture walking into heaven and there’s Dakota leading the charge toward me with a crowd of other wagging tails. My horses, too…” I close my eyes. Why not? Doesn’t God give good gifts to his children?
I smile.