I know - it sounds silly, childish and ridiculous.
But I was heartbroken.
It happened one weekend in the fall. Our family dog, Scotchie, was sick. She had been for a long time, but this time she wasn't going to get better. She had lived with cancer for a while and the pain was finally too much.
Scotchie was the dog of my childhood. She was born when I was young, I remember her as a puppy, but I doubt my brother does because we were that young. She was always there. She grew up with us, chased us around the neighborhood while we rode bikes, barked at strangers that came to close to us, protected us and loved is. She even tried to let our cat nurse off her when the cats mother left him too young. She was the size of a lab, so the sight of her laying on her side, letting this sweet little gray kitty try and nurse was just too sweet. Never mind that Scotchie had been fixed since she was a puppy......
She was just that kind of dog. A giver, a true love. She was everything a good dog should be.
And that weekend, it was official. She wouldn't be coming home again.
As a family, we decided with our vets input that it was time. We all went together and spent time with her. I remember saying my goodbyes, being with her till she went and then being to angry and upset to talk to anyone. I stared out the window of the vets office for what seemed like forever - forbidding the angry tears from falling.
I decided right there, that I wasn't talking to God anymore. I even told God that God could talk to me all God wanted, but I didn't care. God couldn't be bothered to heal my dog and save my family this pain, then I couldn't be bothered to talk to God.
I know this seems hypocritical given my last post about trusting God in a hurricane - but this was different. This was my family and the pain was real. This wasn't something that might happen - this was something that WAS happening.
I'm fiercely protective of my family and I couldn't deal with the fact that they were in a pain that I couldn't protect them from.
The silent treatment lasted about 48 hours.
All weekend long, I reiterated to God that I wasn't talking to God. I felt that God knew this, accepted this. I even felt loved during it - which only fueled my anger.
It finally broke Sunday night, when I just couldn't hold it in any longer. I let loose with sobs, prayers and my soul. Turns out that was exactly what I needed.
The two things I took away from that were this:
- Sometimes talking to God is what really helps.
- Sometimes, God is cool with me not talking to God.
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