I’ve had happier things to write about. Still do. But not today. No, today I’m writing about the mound of dirt and tulips planted by the first tree on our driveway. I’m writing about tears and what-ifs. I’m writing about the constant cries of animal who longs for her companion, her buddy.
It was a beautiful weekend in Oklahoma. One not to be missed. Many were outside enjoying the out of the ordinary warmer temperatures for this time of year. Even our dogs took advantage of an opportunity to run past the barriers of our yard that protect them and head for adventure.
Brandon and I started our Sunday on the road at five in the morning excited to surprise the kids, getting home from that ten hour drive earlier than what they anticipated. A one o’clock phone call informed us of Saturday’s events. “The dogs got out about eleven. Libby came home about ten last night, but we can’t find Daisy,” Brooklyn said on the line.
We knew. We knew Daisy and Libby never split up. We knew Libby coming home alone was indicative of something bad. The visits to neighbors had been made. Phone calls placed. No sign of her. Gone.
This family began the process to accept what was evident. A process that is increasingly difficult when one doesn’t really know what happened.
Yesterday, I utilized social media resources, posting a picture of Daisy and Libby on Instagram, Twitter, and a few different groups on Facebook, including my own page. My words, “We’re fairly certain something bad happened to our sweet Daisy Mae while we were gone this weekend. She went missing Saturday. Libby came home that night. No sign of Daisy still. If anyone may know anything, please, please let us know. It’s the not knowing that is so hard.”
A lady on one of the Facebook groups commented, “Please message me.” I did. She responded with information we knew in our hearts, but details we needed, “Unfortunately I wanted to tell you I stopped by the road on 51B going east….” She proceeded to inform me that our sweet Daisy Mae was lying there. That it looked like she was hit.
My husband, who has been busy at work, bringing it home with him several nights a week, spreading it out across our table and working hours after everyone goes to bed, left the office immediately to go get our precious pet. He went to the place nearly two and a half miles from our home and found her. There she was lying on the side of the highway like road-kill. He picked her up, placed her in the truck, brought her home and dug a perfect 3’x5’ rectangle, 4 feet deep grave for our beloved Daisy Mae.
This is where I write about thankfulness. Yes, the topic of the book I’m reading, One Thousand Gifts by Ann Voskamp. The author takes the reader on a journey of what it is to be truly thankful. To live a life to the fullest. To have eucharisteo. Vos Kamp explains, “Eucharisteo, thanksgiving, envelopes the Greek word for grace, charis. But it also holds its derivative, the Greek word chara, meaning ‘joy.’” She continues, “Deep chara joy is found only at the table of the euCHARisteo– the table of thanksgiving.
Last night, I crawled into bed, eyes swollen, nose running, tears still falling, and my heart was full of thankfulness for the tool of social media. I hear so many gripe about the effects of social media. The negative results it renders on their lives. But why? Do we let it because of our lack of self-discipline? Nothing should rule over us. I think about the good things God has given us, and yet in our flesh, humanity and sin we distort the beautiful benefit it should bring to our lives. Like sex. God Himself designed the incredibly beautiful gift for us. An act of intimacy, love and security beyond what we share with anyone other than the one we’ve vowed our life to. But what has our culture done? Distorted the pricelessness of the gift.
Last night, I felt the gift of social media. I think on the scripture James 1:17, “Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.” And I believe the resources I had to utilize was a good gift, a perfect gift to bring our Daisy Mae home.
So today, while I put away her bowl and clean her bed, I’ll think about Vos Kamps’ list, about the sunlight hitting the suds, about the smell of clean sheets and the porcelain dove, that bears the word peace hanging in her kitchen window. In the sadness, I’ll have joy, the joy that comes from thankfulness, eucharisteo. Thankfulness to have had Daisy Mae; how she loved to chase skunks but always lost, how we had to feed her pricey dog food otherwise we’d suffer the aroma of consequences, how despite her very quiet nature, Libby had inspired her to just start using her voice.
For these things, I wake this morning, thankful.
We will miss you, Daisy Mae.
We loved you! Thank you, for loving us!
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