He stood before the clerk, dog beside him, checkbook in hand. “You see, my wife died a couple of weeks ago, and she always paid,” he said. “Will my PetSmart card be enough, or will you need other ID?” That’s all I heard and all I know.

I’m not a great judge of age, but I would say he was in his 80s. I’m guessing he had just had the dog groomed, and I’m pretty positive he was fighting with all his strength to manage the task.

His question to the clerk was so matter-of-fact, but he had to mention her death, didn’t he? It was just a check to PetSmart, you see, but up until the blank space before him, the handwriting in the check register was hers. His life had been turned upside down and shaken empty, nothing but blank spaces everywhere, and the dog was overdue for grooming.

I wondered how long they had been married. Long enough. There in the PetSmart, the most significant span of time for the man with the checkbook was two weeks.

And I wondered about the dog. Hers? Theirs? His now. Like everything else in the man’s home, the dog carries memories of her, but unlike all those other memorials, the dog lives and moves and, with silent eyes, perhaps even shares his grief. It is important, that dog, a link from what was to what is and maybe even what can be. And it’s alive.

Life seeks life. We human beings are not defined by pulse or respiration; it is connection that enlivens us. The moments we share in this world give substance to our breaths and nourishment to our souls. That is a truth reaffirmed by the longings of our hearts over the past year and a half. It is the truth we claim again as we return, nervously maybe, joyously, to our sanctuary together.

Life seeks life. The man will get up tomorrow and take the dog outside, and he will feed it, then sitting among memories, he will scratch it behind the ears and stroke its back, and the dog will sigh, and the man will sigh, and they will know they are alive. And in that life hope stirs.

Yours in Christ,
Mark Westmoreland,
Senior Pastor