Transcendence

One thing I learned in seminary was the concept of the transcendence of God. The Bible tells us we were created in God's image, but some turn it around. One theologian put it like this: God created man in His image and man returned the favor.

Man often thinks himself the ultimate. We should pray that is not true given the failings of man. Sure people can overcome and do some pretty amazing things, but as a group, we are a bunch of screw-ups. The Bible calls us sinners. Keep in mind sin is missing the mark, we are not totally depraved scum. There is something redeemable about us - God loves us. That does not change the fact we are a bunch of screw-ups most of the time. Therefore, we better hope there is more than just man.

Here is my main point about transcendence. If we can have great thoughts, how much greater are God's thoughts? If we can appreciate beauty, how much more can God transcend the beauty we know on earth? If we can love and experience love, how much greater is God's love?

My dog died on Saturday and I have been experiencing pain and grief. I feel the absence of love and separation from something I loved. It gives me hope to think of how much greater a love I will know some day. As much as I loved my dog, I will someday experience a love that will make my love for Hobo pale in comparison. It is not a contest of bigger and better, but a hope and a promise. I have faith that present sorrows will melt away and eventually be replaced with a sense of love I have never known.

The next time you are drinking in the beauty of a landscape or sunset, think of God's transcendence. The next time you are feeling love, so much that your heart aches, think of God's transcendence. All of the good stuff we know is only going to get better.

In the words of Bachman Turner Overdrive, "You ain't seen nothin' yet."

Until the next time
John Strain

Goodbye Hobo

After 13 years, 9 months, and 2 weeks, we had to let go of our dog Hobo today. We knew this day was coming. Hobo's heart and spirit were in much better shape than his ailing body. Today he was released from that prison. Under a warm morning sun and surrounded by his loved ones he slipped away from our embrace. Our tears glistened in his fur and our hearts ached as the part that loved him realized he was gone from our touch. We knew this day would come, we now look forward to the day we will see him again.

My Last Week with Hobo

Saturday, March 5, 2005
Barbara and I came home from our conference. Hobo was lying in his own poop again. I helped him up, but he kept falling on the tile floor. He walks so unsteady and falls frequently. We have been putting off this decision, but I think it is time. His mobility is dwindling, and he makes messes routinely. The poor dog’s quality of life amounts to lying around, needing frequent help to stand up, and tenuous steps punctuated with frequent falls.

The decision was made to take him to the vet next Saturday to be put to sleep. This will give John the opportunity to come home and say goodbye to his furry brother of nearly 14 years.

Hobo was out of food so we went by Petsmart after we grabbed a bite of Chinese food. The reality began to hit me at the store because we did not need the large bag of food, just enough for a week. I had a lump in my throat and the tears welled up. People were in the store with puppies and frisky dogs. We were carrying a last bag of dog food. It is just our turn I suppose.

Sunday, March 6, 2005
After running in the morning, I was having second thoughts. “What’s the rush?” I told myself. I looked on the Internet and found a website that talked about making THE decision. Reading the accounts of others on this site helped. They grappled with the issues I am wrestling with now. I read a poem, “The Rainbow Bridge.” It talked about a place between heaven and earth where pets wait for their masters. Throughout the day I petted Hobo and thought about what I was planning. I felt like Judas. His looks are so trusting and I am going to take him to his death.

I told John of the plans and asked if he wanted to come home to say goodbye. He will come from Baton Rouge Friday and we will take Hobo to the vet on Saturday.

I BBQ’d hamburgers tonight.. Hobo loves to be outside when I am grilling. He walked out once, but due to his waning mobility sat in the house. His strength must be gone. Under normal circumstances he would be supervising every aspect of the event.

Monday, March 7, 2005
We are keeping Hobo in the kitchen and block off the rest of the house when we go to work now. This is a measure to spare the carpet a bit. We set out throw rugs and lay a big comforter on the floor for him to lie on. I pet him every time I think of it and look into his brown eyes. I feel guilt even though I know I am doing the necessary thing.

At work, I took time out to call the vet. I almost hung up before the receptionist answered. A lump in my throat was interfering with my voice. She explained how the vet gives the shots and we could either bring Hobo home to bury or have him cremated. The cost was $55 for cremation or $200 for a private cremation, which would have his ashes returned to us. I did not want to pay $200 and I did not want him thrown into a furnace with a whole bunch of dead animals, so we will bring him home and bury him in the yard. I will wrap him in his blanket along with a toy and find a nice spot in the yard for him.

I am continually surprised by the strong emotions that hit me. This is a hard thing. It hurts and I am choking up almost every time I think about him.

Tuesday, March 8, 2005
Today was easier. Maybe because I have made the decision and I have a few days, but I was not as emotional or depressed about it. In the evening, I threw Hobo some extra meat and treats. If I stay this nice to him, he may figure things out.

I decided to bury him in the front yard where we anchor his rope. Hobo was hooked to a rope that stretched to our front door. It worked well, because we could hook him to the rope and he could stay out as long as he wanted to. When he was ready to come back inside, he would bark. He quit barking a while back though. I don’t know why, but he would just stand there looking at the house. Anyway, I will bury him there and make a round garden about 6’ in diameter. I will put a birdbath in the center. I think this will be a fitting memorial.

Wednesday, March 9, 2005
Friday night, John plans to have a few of his friends over for a goodbye party for Hobo. He will be really spoiled that night with food and lots of petting and loving. In Louisiana, we have a party for everything. If it were me, I would want the same thing.

As the reality of losing Hobo tugs at me, my heart aches. I know it is his time, but it is hard to let go. That sweet face and those brown eyes are killing me. He is so innocent and trusting. He does not know his fate.

Thursday, March 10, 2005
When I let Hobo out this morning, he did not come back. Usually by the time I have the coffee started, he is standing at the door. I stepped out into the cool morning air and began to look for him and listen for the clanking of his dog tags. I found him across the street in a neighbor’s yard. He had fallen and was waiting for me to come get him back on his feet. This is the kind of thing that helps me realize I am doing the necessary thing.

In the evening I got Hobo to chase me around the couch like we used to play. When he saw me make my move, he perked up and took off. His front legs work much better than his hind legs. The poor dog knew what to do, but his body wouldn’t permit it. He fell. Still, he had a moment of sparkle in his eyes, one last game of chase.

Friday, March 11, 2005
While I was getting ready to run, Barbara came in the room from taking her shower. She read my post, “Good News Bad News.” She knelt down to pet Hobo and began to sob. This is his last day. Seeing her cry, I began to cry. The feelings are circular. You look at the poor dog and feel all kinds of love for him. You allow him to bathe you in his stare and you become tearful to think such a sweet life is about to end.

I came home at noon to begin digging his grave. The weather is beautiful; it was sunny and 70 degrees with a gentle breeze. Hobo sat outside with me while I dug. It took nearly 2.5 hours to dig a proper hole for my pup.

When I was finished with the hole, I sat down with Hobes and a nice cold beer. It would be one last time to sit with him after a task. Many times we have enjoyed some rest and a beer at the completion of some work. While we sat, Marty called me, as we talked, two men in suits approached. They were from the Church of Jesus Christ of Ladder Day Saints – Mormons. I told them I was kind of busy so they offered me a card and told me to give them a call. When the young man approached me to hand me the card, Hobo began to bark. This is significant, because he rarely barks anymore. His voice was hoarse sounding. Once they left, I told Hobo it may not be a good move barking at religious folks, given his present situation - just in case they are right. I guess Hobo is satisfied being a Southern Baptist.

People were coming by to say goodbye to Hobo throughout the day. About 4:00 PM John got home from Baton Rouge and immediately began petting Hobo. Shortly after his arrival, Heather and Justin stopped by. We shared our favorite Hobo stories, like the time Hobo almost killed John. Not really, but that is how we tell it. Hobo grabbed the cape of John’s Dracula costume one Halloween and began pulling. John was being choked and overacted just a bit, but the legend has grown ever since. Most folks have a memory of Hobo stealing their food. It only takes a moment of inattentiveness on the part of someone to give Hobo the window of opportunity he needs to feast on the goods.

By the end of the night, Hobo had a houseful of company to tell him goodbye. John’s three friends, Josh, Ben, and Will spent the evening with him. Will brought a bone and some flowers. We ate out with the Murphy’s and after that returned to the house where we were joined by Marty and Cindy. Hobo received lots of loving and seemed to enjoy it immensely.

Saturday, March 12, 2005
I woke up at 6:00 AM. The usual routine began. Hobo was helped outside, I made the coffee, and he came back inside. I petted him and choked back tears as the reality of his time running out was undeniable.

Rousing Barb and John at 7:30 AM, they began stirring and getting ready. John did not know, but Hobo had already looked in on him. Hobo always checked on John while he slept. He simply walked into the room looked at him, let it register that John was OK, and then left. We all took our turn petting him and talking to him. We all shed tears and wished this day had not come.

At 8:00 AM, we took him for one last walk. Hobo fell a few times. He was getting tired, but made it home. I decided to put Hobo in John’s pickup truck instead of the car. When Hobes is put in the car, he knows he is going to the vet. It is a short half-mile ride, but he would be shaking and nervous. After folding one of his thick blankets and placing it in the truck, I picked him up and helped him get comfortable. I rode in the back with him, petting him and keeping him calm. At the Vet’s office, I asked Barbara to go in and see if the doctor would come outside to give him the injection. This way, Hobo would not have to go in the office, smell the smells, and get nervous. He could die outside on a beautiful spring day, while a gentle breeze caressed him.

It worked out just that way. The vet came outside and while Hobo was surrounded by the ones who loved him the most, he slipped away from our embrace. His fur was warm from the bright morning sun and moistened by our tears. We kept petting him and crying. It was peaceful but heart breaking. He was gone.

Once home, we wrapped him in a sheet and gently laid him in his grave. We each threw in a handful of dirt then John and I sealed the grave. In the future, a birdbath will mark this spot, but today we placed the vase with the flowers Will brought and the cork screw rope anchor that used to tether Hobo and keep him in the yard. Only now the anchor holds no rope, because Hobo is free. Draped atop the anchor is Hobo’s blue collar.

I hurt my back digging the hole yesterday, so I will have to wait on my ultimate plans for his grave.

So that’s it. 13 years 9 months and 2 weeks is the measure of time we got to have Hobo. He was a good dog and we loved him very much. Our hearts are heavy and we know it will be some time before the aching subsides. I knew this day would come. Now I look forward to another day when we will see him again.

Until the next time
John Strain

Good News Bad News

The good news is I only have to work half a day today. The bad news is I am coming home early to dig a grave for my dog. I know I am using humor to cover up my sad feelings. I won't be able to keep this up on Saturday, nor would I want to do so.

I have kept a bit of a diary logging my feelings and some of the events of Hobo's last week. I will post it on Saturday or Sunday once I have recorded my feelings for that day. I am going to create a circular garden with a birdbath in the middle of it. Hobo will lie beneath it and when I look at it I will remember him. It is a way to keep his memory alive.

I want to thank those of you who have left comments of support and condolence. They do help and your sentiments are very much appreciated. Life makes sure we all receive a portion of the good stuff and the bad stuff. I have a helping of the bad stuff due and I must face it. At least I know I am not facing it alone.

Until the next time
John Strain

Why I Blog

Sometimes people ask me why I blog. They may ask why I use my real name and share personal information about myself, friends, and family. They usually walk away before I give any kind of coherent answer. I suppose there is some risk plastering your "business" on the Internet. I don't worry too much about lunatics reading my blog and hunting me down. I work with psychiatric patients as it is. I am already "at risk" to some degree, what's another incentive or two?

In college I had a feeling. It was to record things I was feeling and to write down the events of my life. This feeling was not born out of arrogance, but a desire to leave a marker, to say that I was here, and I did thus and so, and this is what I felt, and this is what I thought.

I talk to people every day. They are insignificant people by status and influence, but they are damned interesting. I like to know what they have done, what they felt, and what they thought. I get paid to do it. We all have a story and they are all interesting.

Perusing through an antique store one may spy a table. The table becomes more interesting if it is learned that George Washington planned battles there with his generals. Our blogs are the footnotes to our lives. We explain what is going on in the unseen. Those who take the time to read a blog become attached to the person behind it. Like an episode of Days of Our Lives, we tune in to read the latest.

I write to leave a record for my son. He may not care what I think about a particular subject today, but I suspect a time will come when he will. He can look it up if I am to demented to tell him myself. Future historians can look at our blogs and have more to go on then the major networks and established newspapers. The masses now have voice. From a teenager who uses the word, "like" 300 times in a 500-word post to the political blogs bashing the other side, there is voice.

I blog to purge myself. I can collect my thoughts, express my anger, and find words for my pain. At times I want to convey my joy or try to cause laughter in far away places. It is a challenge. Most of all, I want to be real and true to myself. I hope people read what I write and can say, "I know what he is saying" or "Hmmm, that is an interesting point." My posts are the conclusion of my feelings usually. They are filtered through a few days and conversations with others. One reason I have my name attached to this blog is to hold myself accountable. I have never written an anonymous letter except to Stephanie Shrock in seventh grade. She was out of my league and I was afraid to approach her directly, but I wanted her to know someone out there thought she was special. Anyway, by being myself, I am not tempted to be radical or use inflammatory language. I do that with my friends. Afterwards, when I get that out of my system, I try to sort it out on this blog.

So ends my rambling thoughts about blogging. I love the medium for expression and for meeting people all over the world. I never would have believed one could make friends with someone and never have heard their voice or saw their face, but it is possible. Blogs filter out appearance, age, and other common prejudices, and give us a glimpse right into the heart.

Until the next time
John Strain

Sleep

I am a morning person. I get up early no problem. I can leave a warm, comfortable bed pretty easily, because I want to get at the day. My best work is in the morning. Hmmm, maybe I should start writing my posts then instead of just before bedtime. It was not always like this for me. In the past, the Jaws of Life were necessary to extricate me from the comfort of my sheets.

As a child in Shawnee, Kansas, I hated to get up on school mornings. I remember lying in bed in the morning. My mother would be up stirring about the house. I knew my time was short and soon I would be forced from my warm cocoon into the cold cruel world.

To make matters worse, my mother wore these hand made booties with little bells attached to them. I still remember hearing the bells jingling as she walked about the house. Sooner or later though, the bells would get louder and louder as she approached my room. Then the dreaded words would come out of her mouth. "Wake up little rosebud, time to get up." She said it in a sappy sweet voice like Glenda the good witch in the Wizard of Oz. I'm telling you it was tough.

Later on, I got a paper route and I had to get up at 2:30 AM. Only the promise of money could get me out of bed. Since then, getting up has never been a problem. I hate to sleep in. I always feel like I missed something if I slept late.

My favorite time to get into bed is, (drum roll please), bedtime. I love crawling in the covers at night. The day is behind me and my rest is usually well deserved. If I have accomplished something during the day, the sleep is all the better. I get to sleep fast. I rarely lie there more than a few minutes before I am gone.

I am aware how wonderful this is. Many have sleep difficulty. A day at work is much different if it is preceded by a poor night's sleep. Poor sleep leads to depression and all sorts of problems. If you can sleep well, you are lucky. What a wonderful thing, sleep. How different things seem after a night's sleep.

If you will excuse me, it is my bedtime.

5:42 AM Update: Well, so much for my theory about being sharp in the morning. I got up at 5:00 AM as usual, took the dog out and made coffee. I put water in the sink to shave. The TV was on FOX News. I figured the coffee should be ready and walked to the kitchen. Coffee was all over the counter and still dripping. It seems Mr. Fresh in the Morning forgot to put the pot in the coffee maker. Big mess. Cleaning it up is an excellent way to clear the rest of the sleep cobwebs from my brain. I will probably run better now. The worst thing was the delay in that first cup of brew. Oh well.

Until the next time,
John Strain