Grief's unexpected return
When the resurrection that comes isn't the resurrection you anticipated
This is a(n unexpected) sequel to this post.
John 11:17-27
When Jesus arrived, he found that Lazarus had already been in the tomb four days. Now Bethany was near Jerusalem, some two miles away, and many of the Jews had come to Martha and Mary to console them about their brother. When Martha heard that Jesus was coming, she went and met him, while Mary stayed at home. Martha said to Jesus, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. But even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask of him.” Jesus said to her, “Your brother will rise again.” Martha said to him, “I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.” Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?” She said to him, “Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world.”
Sitting at the kitchen table on the eve of my 31st birthday, my husband and I applied to adopt a dog.1 It was the only thing I wanted for my birthday.
Her name was Doppler, an eight(ish) month old puppy who was displaced by Hurricane Milton in Florida and brought to Minnesota in early October. From the pictures, she looked like a sweet and alert girl who lured me in with her sassy side eye and adorable white sock.
Over the following days, I checked my email obsessively hoping to hear about her status and when I could meet her. I was (unsurprisingly) tearing up on the regular, amazed at how we could finally be at a place to welcome a dog back into our lives. Cameron and I were filled with excitement, but also honest about our nerves, as it had been over a year and a half since we had last cared for a dog.
Did we still have it in us? Could we do this without comparing her to Brooklyn? Would we get back on the dog schedule? How would we know if it was the right fit?
We emailed back and forth with Doppler’s foster mom, getting answers to our basic questions before scheduling to meet her on Saturday, four days after submitting our application.
Driving to the park on Saturday morning, we tried to stay calm by naming realistic expectations and cultivating a spirit of openness. Would she be skittish, hesitant, or nervous around us? We had no idea, but we had to trust that the Spirit was leading us through the entire process. We had to trust that our gut and instinct would know.
I saw her for the first time from across the park and immediately knew she was special. When we approached her, she fell on her back in submission, so joyful and playful with us from the beginning. In those 40 minutes in the park, her personality was on full display as we witnessed her adventurous spirit, innate hunting instinct, playful joy, and love for humans. We walked away knowing she would be a perfect dog for us.
By the end of the day Saturday, we had scheduled with her foster mom to pick her up the next day. She needed to be transferred to someone new as soon as possible, and since we were planning to adopt her, we were first in line. Just like that, in what felt like the snap of our fingers, we were bringing a dog back into our lives.
The next day, on Sunday afternoon, we left our home to go pick her up knowing that our lives would never be the same. She sat on my lap in the car, unsure of how she would do on the ride home. Our first stop was the pet store—we had nothing!—where she picked out a bed and snacked on a stick as we measured her for a collar and shopped around for food. After we had secured all her accessories, we brought her home to welcome her into our place, tired and exhausted after a long and whirlwind afternoon.
It was then, when we walked into the door with this new puppy, that it hit me. A wave of anguish that sent me back in time 17 months.
It had been 17 months since we put Brooklyn down. It had been 17 months of grieving and processing and waiting. It had been 17 months of tears and longing and wondering who our next pup would be.
Here I was, 17 long and excruciating months later, bringing home a dog I could call my own. Here I was, in my home, with a dog who just made me a dog Mama again.
But I wasn’t jumping up and down with joy.
Instead, I was folded in on myself on my bed, weeping in grief.
This is my continued story of grief, a chapter in my story that has been incredibly unexpected, shocking, and confusing. Yet, it’s become an integral part of my journey of grieving my beloved, Brooklyn, and opening myself up to inevitably grieve again.
Loss
While death and separation are tangible losses associated with grief, some of the participants described losses that are more difficult to identify or describe. These included the loss of normality, the loss of what could be, and the loss of what we thought we knew or understood about something or someone.
—Brené Brown, Atlas of the Heart
The moment we brought Doppler into our home, my space of respite and peace was turned upside-down. The couch was covered with spare sheets in case she jumped up and had an accident. Her crate was put in the corner by the window. We had to start closing doors and moving things so they’d be out of reach of her. All the ornaments on the bottom of the Christmas tree were moved up.
In the span of ten minutes, I felt like I had lost my home to this untrained stranger of a dog, along with all sense of control over my life and any semblance of peace and quiet.
Walking into my home was no longer a welcome reprieve, but a time to watch over this puppy every second she was out and train her as best I could.2 It was not a place of rest, but had become a place of work, training, instruction.
All of this may sound a bit dramatic—or obvious to those who have brought home a puppy before—but it was the deepest level of my experience. After not having a home for over a year, this physical space was the greatest gift in our lives, and a gift that had just begun to feel like ours.
The moment this dog walked in, it felt like I had lost my home all over again, the home I had waited so long to enjoy. And not only did I lose my home, but I was now living with a complete stranger. A creature with whom I had no relationship was now dictating my life in my home.
Immediately, the regret started to seep in. I wanted my home back. I wanted my slice of heaven where I could drink my tea while playing Wordle in front of the Christmas tree in peace and quiet. I wanted my morning routines filled with running and podcasts and meditation. In the matter of seconds, this puppy had ruined all of that.
Not only that, but bringing Doppler home also made me realize how much I had gotten used to it just being Cameron and me, the two of us. Ironically, this was one of the things I grieved most when Brooklyn died. I lost a sense of family because we had never, in our 10 years together, been just the two of us. It had always been the three of us.
Over these months of grieving, I had adjusted to us as a pair. I had begun to treasure the ability to focus on us and the challenges ahead. I had enjoyed having one less creature who was demanding anything of me. It was a reprieve, especially during a time that demanded so much of me emotionally, spiritually, and mentally.
In the course of three hours, I had lost so much stability for which my soul still longed, but I didn’t realize the depth of my longing for those things until they were gone.
Longing
Related to loss is longing. Longing is not conscious wanting; it’s an involuntary yearning for wholeness, for understanding, for meaning, for the opportunity to regain or even simply touch what we’ve lost. Longing is a vital and important part of grief, yet many of us feel we need to keep our longings to ourselves for fear we will be misunderstood, perceived as engaging in magical or unrealistic thinking, or lacking in fortitude and resilience.
—Brené Brown, Atlas of the Heart
It was in January—seven months after Brooklyn died—that I felt ready to have a dog again. Or more accurately, I felt I needed a dog to heal me and put me back together.
Ever since, this had been my deepest longing. I would see dogs on my runs and be filled with joy at the idea of having one of my own again. When we toured our condo for the first time, I imagined sitting with our future dog in the window seat and watching the snow fall. A dog was always part of the vision.
In all of this longing, however, I seemed to have mistaken any dog for my dog, for Brooklyn.
While weeping on my bed that Sunday afternoon, I realized that I didn’t long for a dog. The longing I had felt on that January evening was for Brooklyn. I longed to have our family back. I longed to be known and loved and be years into a relationship with a dog. I longed for the slow, geriatric years that I had gotten accustomed to.
How is someone supposed to know that?
As I grieved, I began to watch Doppler make herself at home in our space, something that was profoundly humbling. Doppler found every nook and cranny immediately, curious about it all, fearless in her exploration of this new place with new humans. This was the third home she had lived in the course of one month, after a most likely stressful departure and trip from Florida, and yet she was open and trusting and here to experience it all.
Time and time again, I would look at her and say, “You’re so brave. You’re so resilient.”
In awe of her, I realized how weak I felt. How broken I must seem to her. I began to think that this incredible dog didn’t deserve me. She deserved someone who longed for her, not their dead dog.
Feeling Lost
Grief requires us to reorient every part of our physical, emotional, and social worlds. When we imagine the need to do this, most of us picture the painful struggle to adjust to a tangible change, such as someone dying or moving away. But this is a very limited view of grief.
—Brené Brown, Atlas of the Heart
In all my months of longing, I expected a reunion with my new dog to be a really beautiful and joyful experience. I imagined a sense of completeness and wholeness. I did not expect to feel such deep anguish, grief, and not-good-enough-ness. And I did not, by any means, imagine regretting it.
This mismatch of expectations and reality brought everything into question.
Could we trust ourselves? Did I have it in me to be a dog Mama again? Were we totally wrong to get a puppy? Would I ever be able to have a dog again?
I searched endlessly for answers. I reached out to friends for prayers and guidance. I found reddit threads on the “puppy blues.” It seemed to be a common experience for people, but that didn’t help me make the decision of whether it was the right choice for us, in this moment. I realized the biggest question for me to answer was:
Was Doppler brought into our lives to help me process this grief and move through it? or Was Doppler brought into our lives to show me that I wasn’t ready yet, that we needed to wait a little longer?
There was no internet thread to answer this for me.
I was profoundly lost, trying to take it day by day, but knowing that we had to make a decision sooner rather than later for the sake of Doppler. She didn’t deserve more upheaval. She deserved a home, and people who she would know as her humans. She deserved to find the rest that I so longed for, and a deep bond with a human as we once had with Brooklyn.
But how do you answer this question when under the weight of such grief? When your heart can barely muster the energy to attend to this creature in your care? How do you answer this question when you don’t even know if you can trust yourself anymore?
Making Meaning
A central process in grieving is the attempt to reaffirm or reconstruct a world of meaning that has been challenged by loss.
—Robert A. Neimeyer
The first couple of nights with Doppler, she would cuddle up next to me after a long day of endless puppy energy. These were the moments I had hoped for—a dog curled up next to me, leaning into the curves of my hips. I looked down on her sweet sleeping body laying on my lap, handing over all her trust to me, and say a simple prayer:
God, please open my heart to this dog.
This was the only prayer I could muster because I could feel that my heart wasn’t open. When I mediated in the morning (which only happened when Cameron had taken her out and I could close my eyes for 10 straight minutes), I could sense the hardness in my heart. I could feel the protective forces around it trying to prevent further depression, deeper sadness, continued overwhelm. I so wanted to love this dog, but I didn’t know how. I needed her to crack it open, little by little. I needed to trust that I could love again.
After a few days of wanting my quiet and peaceful home back, after a couple days of leaving home to go to work as necessary time away, this prayer was answered by a quiet voice in the recesses of my soul.
This voice reminded me that a full life is not about a quiet and peaceful home, as much as my homebody soul would like it to be, as much as my still-healing-from-nomad-life spirit wanted to make me believe.
A full life is about loving and being loved in return.
I had to believe that’s what Doppler was reminding me.
My emotional response to welcoming Doppler into our home and into our lives was completely unexpected. As we were preparing for her entrance into our lives, it felt like resurrection, a new chapter, a new beginning. It felt like the final piece of the puzzle that would complete everything we had hoped and waited for.
Yet the grief that washed over me felt like a return to the tomb. It felt like losing Brooklyn and our family all over again.
I was a grieving, desperate Martha, saying to Jesus, “If you’d been here, Brooklyn wouldn’t have died. If you’d been here, we would all be back together again. If you’d been here, I wouldn’t need to open myself up to a new dog because we could have our family back.”
I had imagined resurrection looking and feeling a particular way. That’s the resurrection I longed for, the one I hoped for—the resurrection I designed in my grieving heart.
Ultimately, that’s what kept me from recognizing the new life in front of me—the resurrection that actually came my way in the form of a little pup named Doppler.
Even though she wasn’t Brooklyn, and even though it would take months and years to know and love her as deeply as I loved Brooklyn, I knew that she would eventually crack open my heart to love again. That she would, in time, become a family member who I could never imagine my life without. That in a year, I would look back and wonder how I could have even thought about not adopting her.
When Jesus tells Martha, “I am the resurrection and the life,” he’s not speaking within the confines of our grieving hearts. He’s speaking about a newness that is beyond our imaginations, beyond our present and limited emotional experiences.
That’s the resurrection I’ve experienced, a new life that is deeper and wider than if Brooklyn would’ve simply come back from the dead. Because now, I have Brooklyn and Doppler.
And what’s even more miraculous? I actually believe that.
As I write this, I am sitting on the window seat in our new home. Doppler is laying on the blanket in between my legs after an adventurous morning. I occasionally stop writing to glance at her with loving eyes with Brooklyn’s urn in my periphery on the shelf behind her.
I’ve said previously that grief is the act of holding the weeping Mary inside of us whenever she goes to visit the tomb.
This is what I do every time I look at Doppler. I go back to the tomb as I’m reminded of my greatest loss. Every time I look at Doppler, I think about her sister Brooklyn, who remarkably feels even more present to me now that Doppler is here.
After a little over two months, I’m beginning to see the resurrection God has made possible.
A resurrection I did not design by my own will or desires.
A resurrection that is guiding me through grief I thought was settled.
A resurrection that is creating a new beginning for us all. For me, Cameron, Doppler, and our home.
A resurrection that I am fully aware will lead me to the tomb once again, but I’m (mostly) confident the love will be worth it.
To Doppler, you spunky, brave, resilient, wicked smart little girl—
You came into our lives quickly and unexpectedly and, though I thought I was ready, I definitely was not.
Continue to open my heart to love again. To love fully aware that I will one day lose you just as I lost Brooklyn, but that love is worth the sting of death. Love is what makes life worth living. Love is what heals all wounds, even and especially my broken and grieving heart.
And I so desperately want to love you.
Thanks for making me a dog Mama again.
Thanks for showing me the resurrection.
❤️
We adopted through The Bond Between, and had a great experience. 10/10 recommend for local Minnesotans to adopt, foster, and care for animals in need of homes!
I wondered to myself multiple times, “how do people bring home actual babies??”
❤️❤️❤️ love you and your writing!! There is so much love mixed up in grief and so much grief mixed up in love. Also every picture of Doppler makes my heart hurt because she’s SO DANG ADORABLE. It’s too much. 😍
Jenna❤️🐾 thank you for putting into eloquent words , the grief we are experiencing too. We cannot wait to meet Doppler.