“Found a dog . . . on Craigslist,” Dreamer said. “But the ad’s a month old.”

A month ago, I couldn’t imagine initiating a rescue.

But things changed with Dreamer’s diagnosis.

Might a loyal, eloquent-if-non-speaking, waggery companion shadowing our steps help us face the future?

We emailed the owners, somehow won their hearts, then drove to Rosalia, Idaho, for the hand-off.

Within the first minute, “Vinnie” licked Dreamer’s face. Think power wash.

Then, tail thumping, he leapt into our car, and he snuggled my beloved all the way home.

Vinnie is a tawny, 4-year-old Husky/Rottweiler. He’s sweet-tempered, patient, and well-trained. After a worrisome three-day hunger strike—despite our elderly charm campaign and wheedling dog-dish charades (plus a dear friend’s prayers)—hunger won out.

The Vinster consented to eat.

Consent denotes willingness to embrace change: You seem nice; sure, I’ll sleep by your bed—while also maintaining a measure of control—Kibbles? I can snarf ‘em or leave ‘em. Watch me.

Consent, even canine, can be withheld. Given. Withdrawn.

Assent, on the other hand, cedes power differently. Factual circumstances may not change—in our case, despite fervent pleading with God.

Like Vinnie, re-homed, Dreamer and I can’t change where we find ourselves now. But God’s grace can change us in profound, unforeseen ways.

Moment by lurching moment, we are learning to say yes to this new chapter unfolding before us.

“Be it unto me according to your word,” Mary told the angel Gabriel. Her willing, wholehearted assent embraced a life radically reshaped, from that moment, forward.

Author Sarah Clarkson writes, “You don’t have to assent or agree with what is before you, and often you ought not to; but if you do, [your assent] is something offered, a yielding to a story you perhaps didn’t choose and don’t yet fully understand.”

Which sounds really spiritual.

Yet often, we’re sad and scared. Or mercifully distracted. There are also moments we struggle to breathe through the sneaker wave of desolation.

Some nights, I distract myself with a crossword puzzle. Other nights, it’s enough to simply listen to Dreamer breathing beside me. Still here.

As well as the random snurffle from Vinnie, snoozing beside our bed.

Our days fill with prayers and research and learning the ways of our new companion. We are a threesome now. With a dog who just barfed, twice. Once on the carpet.

Didn’t see that coming.

Post-cleanup, barricaded in the kitchen, Vinnie somehow Houdini-es through one corner of the canvas folding screen. Turns out Velcro tabs do not deter 70 pounds of lonesome, panting, disoriented mind, muscle, and heart.

He misses his old life. As we miss ours.

Dementia can be erratic, unbearably cruel. Our Healer-Redeemer never sleeps, is ever-present, unchanging, compassionate. It is to God’s unending love we say yes, not to the disease—trusting that what tears us open is already, by grace, deeply at work within us, and will continue, ultimately forging a healing path forward.

“. . . Jesus is going ahead of you,” the angel at the tomb tells the women gathered there in sorrow, fear, and confusion.

Talk about a lifeline.

Perhaps you’re enduring events likely to unravel your heart or ravage the life of someone you love. Friends, let’s pray for each other, seeking the grace to surrender to God all we are and have and will one day be.

P.S.

Here’s a “5 – 5 – 8” breathwork stress-buster we find calming, a small, real-time rescue when panic looms:

• five-count inhale
• hold breath for five counts
• exhale audibly for eight counts

I’ve added words and motion, which help dispel late-night anxiety spikes):

• (inhale for 5) As if playing a keyboard, palms down, moving left pinky first, sequentially tap each finger, praying: “We trust you, Jesus.” (Or: “We love you, Jesus.”)
• (hold breath for 5) Right thumb to pinky, sequentially tap each finger, praying: “Have mercy on us.”
• (exhale for 8) Left pinky to right middle finger, one tap each: “All that we have and are is yours.”

Repeat, as needed.

You might also enjoy “Catch Your Breath Here” (from the archives.)

I highly recommend Sarah Clarkson’s book, Reclaiming Quiet.

Photo of Sleeper by Annie Spratt on Unsplash