On Saying Goodbye

What’s so hard is that she’s our bridge. 

She connects us to the sweetest days. To our toddlers’ sandy bums and picnic lunches and fetching the frisbee way out in the water. 

She’s a link back to Grammie, who wanted us to have something that would outlive her—some way to keep spoiling her granddaughters well after she went to heaven. 

And she bore witness to life on three continents, curling herself at the girls’ feet for every “Hey guys, we gotta talk.” She bounded off every flight as if it had been 24 minutes, not 24 hours.

She lit up paths to the Family Mart in Matsumoto and the Zakladni Skola in Bosonohy and the Cherry Creek Trail in Parker. She never met a stranger she didn’t love. And I mean love. 

Maybe that’s what’s hardest—the absence of her kind presence. If we could only assume the best of everyone like she did. 

We’re wondering when she’ll come lick the dishes in the open dishwasher. Or curl up next to our beds. Or burrow through the snow. Gosh, she loved the snow. 

And will we see her again? That’s hard too. It’s possible. Our God loves animals and says there’ll be all kinds in the New Heavens and New Earth. He’s going to make all things new. But there’s no promise about her and it’s hard to imagine never looking in those hazel eyes again. 

She’s our bridge. Our witness. Our constant. 

Her passing means our days are passing and I think that’s what hurts the most.

What a good gift from our Creator. What a kind God to make Labrador Retrievers. How she loved us. How she gave lavishly and freely and unconditionally. 

How hard it was to say goodbye today. Thank you, Lord, for Piper.