This poem was featured on the Writer’s Almanac on Friday, March 13, 2009. The poem’s imagery really struck me. Very vivid. Very real. It evoked strong memories and emotions. It reminded me of a dog named Molly who was at the center of a struggle that changed my live.
The Meaning of Life by Nancy Fitzgerald
There is a moment just before
a dog vomits when its stomach
heaves dry, pumping what’s deep
inside the belly to the mouth.
If you are fast you can grab
her by the collar and shove her
out the door, avoid the slimy bile,
hunks of half chewed food
from landing on the floor.
You must be quick, decisive,
controlled, and if you miss
the cue and the dog erupts
en route, you must forgive
her quickly and give yourself
to scrubbing up the mess.
Most of what I have learned
in life leads back to this.
Molly, whom we rescued from the pound, had already put us at odds with the neighbors. She would bark at everyone who passed by the house. And had, more than once, gotten loose to chase cars and children riding their bikes. She nearly assaulted an elderly man who walked the neighborhood; he had to hold her at bay with his cane. She had problems. She needed a special kind of care and attention that, sadly, our family could not provide.
We decided to move to be closer to our church. The half-hour drive was taxing on relationships. Hopefully we could find a house with a fenced yard for the kids and Molly. She contributed her share (see poem) to that oh so frustrating process of keeping one’s house show-ready. After nine months, I was desperate to sell our home. We had put some money down on another home, a beautiful log cabin that made by bride gush. But things dragged on and eventually I had to face her and tell her I could not deliver it to her. Why was this happening to me? Who was to blame? My dog became the focal point of my anger, my wrath.
Ultimately, I discovered, my anger was not directed at Molly. She was an unfortunate proxy. The object of my anger was He who placed me in close proximity with vomit and feces of the dog, and of life. I was angry at God. And my heart succumbed to the temptation to accuse God and find him guilty: “What kind of God would put me in this position? Is this the kindness of a loving God, to me, his so-called child? Is this the evidence of His love for me? I don’t deserve this. If this is what He had for me, then God is not a loving, merciful savior. He is a monster.”
And one night, walking the dog in the pouring down freezing rain, as she refused to do her business, I hit a new low – the bottom of the barrel of despair. “This cannot be my life.” I said to myself. “This will not be my life.” The old man declared the superiority of the hardened, dead state. And I seriously contemplated killing my dog. I come do it. It would not be hard. Then I could come in from the rain. I could forcefully remove the obstacles. I could have my way.
It was there, in the rain, that God spoke loudly to me. “Who is the monster?”
And in a flash, God smote my heart, and made me aware that He held it in his hands. And that although I was monstrous, He loved me. Even though I had, in my hard heart, killed my God, He could not stay dead and he had forgiven me for the act.
Molly’s Tale
This poem was featured on the Writer’s Almanac on Friday, March 13, 2009. The poem’s imagery really struck me. Very vivid. Very real. It evoked strong memories and emotions. It reminded me of a dog named Molly who was at the center of a struggle that changed my live.
Molly, whom we rescued from the pound, had already put us at odds with the neighbors. She would bark at everyone who passed by the house. And had, more than once, gotten loose to chase cars and children riding their bikes. She nearly assaulted an elderly man who walked the neighborhood; he had to hold her at bay with his cane. She had problems. She needed a special kind of care and attention that, sadly, our family could not provide.
We decided to move to be closer to our church. The half-hour drive was taxing on relationships. Hopefully we could find a house with a fenced yard for the kids and Molly. She contributed her share (see poem) to that oh so frustrating process of keeping one’s house show-ready. After nine months, I was desperate to sell our home. We had put some money down on another home, a beautiful log cabin that made by bride gush. But things dragged on and eventually I had to face her and tell her I could not deliver it to her. Why was this happening to me? Who was to blame? My dog became the focal point of my anger, my wrath.
Ultimately, I discovered, my anger was not directed at Molly. She was an unfortunate proxy. The object of my anger was He who placed me in close proximity with vomit and feces of the dog, and of life. I was angry at God. And my heart succumbed to the temptation to accuse God and find him guilty: “What kind of God would put me in this position? Is this the kindness of a loving God, to me, his so-called child? Is this the evidence of His love for me? I don’t deserve this. If this is what He had for me, then God is not a loving, merciful savior. He is a monster.”
And one night, walking the dog in the pouring down freezing rain, as she refused to do her business, I hit a new low – the bottom of the barrel of despair. “This cannot be my life.” I said to myself. “This will not be my life.” The old man declared the superiority of the hardened, dead state. And I seriously contemplated killing my dog. I come do it. It would not be hard. Then I could come in from the rain. I could forcefully remove the obstacles. I could have my way.
It was there, in the rain, that God spoke loudly to me. “Who is the monster?”
And in a flash, God smote my heart, and made me aware that He held it in his hands. And that although I was monstrous, He loved me. Even though I had, in my hard heart, killed my God, He could not stay dead and he had forgiven me for the act.