I just spent my lunch break talking to my mom... and no, she didn't call me because I had not yet posted this morning. We have a twelve-year old German Shepherd, and Mom is going to have to put her to sleep this afternoon. Now, I've never been one to get super-emotional about the loss of pets, maybe because after losing my dad, a dog didn't seem to have as much impact on my life.

But I'm pretty sad about Cinder right now. Have any of you ever seen the movie, "All Dogs Go To Heaven?" If I have, I don't remember it. The title strikes me, though, because from a traditional theological understanding, animals don't go to heaven at all. They're not humans, and don't have the relationship with God that humans do. I suppose some people would argue this point with me, but that's probably the general conclusion if you stop and think about it.

Of course, how many of us really understand the afterlife to begin with? I know what I was taught as a child-- I used to sing a song all the time for my church congregation called, "In My Robe of White." It talked about flying away to meet Jesus in the clouds, walking along streets of gold, and the like. Many will swear up and down that this best represents the afterlife. Others simply talk about our souls "being with God," whatever that means. I'm sure that the Presbyterian Church has a teaching on it that falls somewhere in between.

As I thought about Cinder today, though, I realized that sometimes it is necessary for the human spirit to believe. Hebrews 11:1 tells us, "Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen." Sometimes, even when our reason constantly pushes us toward doubt, we tenaciously cling to hope because we have to. There are things we have faith about because our very survival in this world depends on it-- because that belief reaches us in some deep place that all the intellectualizing we do can't bring us to. This kind of faith is intuitive, it is emotional, and it stays with us even when all reason turns its face from us. It is faith the Holy Spirit plants within us.

When my dad passed away almost six years ago, Cinder took it hard. Whenever Dad's truck rolled into the driveway, she perked up and went trotting off to meet him. Yet when the door opened and someone else got out, you could visibly see the disappointment in her frame as she turned away and walked off. Cinder may have been just a dog, but she mourned my father in her own way as much as we did in ours.

I don't know the fine points of Reformed teaching on the afterlife, to be perfectly honest. But in my heart, here's what I imagine for Cinder today after she falls asleep in a little Washington town: that old dog will open her eyes, lift her head, and see the man she's been looking for these last six years coming toward her with a shy smile on his face. She'll bound toward him as he says, "Come here, Cinder." And he'll never leave her again.

I certainly can't prove this, and I doubt the church would theologically back me up on my sentimental little image. But this picture of her passing gives me far more comfort than any doctrinaire statements would. And I hope that in the great mystery that is the Divine, I will have a similar welcome from God someday.

"We know that we have passed from death to life because we love one another. Whoever does not love abides in death." --1 John 3:14

Kelsey

Hi Kelsey,
I am really sorry about Cinder, about your dad also. I know I lost both my mother and father when I was a young woman. I thought I would post some of my favorite lines from Donne and from a hymn for you.

First Donne from Holy Sonnets:

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee/ Mighty and Dreadful, for thou are not so;/For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow/ Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. . . One short sleep past, we wake eternally/ and death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

From "Hymn to God My God, in Sickness:
I joy, that in these straits, I see my West;/ For, though their currents yield return to none,/ What shall my West hurt me? As West and East/ In all flat maps (and I am one) are one,/So death doth touch the resurrection.

From "My Shepherd will supply my need":
The sure provisions of my God/ Attend me all my days,/ O may thy house be my abode/ And all my work be praise./ There would I find a settled rest,/ While others go and come, No more a stranger or a guest,/ But like a child at home.

Peace in Christ,
Viola Larson