Spirituality
R.I.P. Lucy
July 29, 2026
I can’t remember exactly when I stopped dreaming (or at least not remembering my dreams). It was sometime toward the end of my doctoral work. Who knows why. I’d been reading and thinking a lot. We just had our second child. I was taking seriously my tendency to live as a theological nomad who wandered around the edges of religious tradition encampments, and had built my pack for exploration and survival. All of these things probably used up whatever spare brain cycles I had left. I simply went to bed each night – and it was almost like a jump cut to the next morning. Eyes closed, eyes open, next day.
Every once in a while I would have some foggy recollection of the self-made-movies of my sleep, but they came infrequently and ambiguously.
Fast forward ten years to 2018 and things were similarly heavy-layered. We had lost my mom to ovarian cancer, we completely gutted and remodeled a 115-year-old-house-turned-college-flop-house, and my dad – who needed a lot of help and medical care – moved in with us. There was a lot going on, but we thought we might try getting a dog since we had settled into a new place and the kids were old enough to help.
And that’s when I had a dream I distinctly remembered.
It wasn’t a long dream, there was no wild plot line or chase scene, just the face of this bright white dog, looking at me with coal black eyes. It was honestly a little haunting. Of all the forgotten or never conjured dreams to break through, why this image?
Within a week, we went to a local dog rescue to see a litter of older “doodle” puppies that had come in from the streets. As we were watching them play in the dog run, the dog I saw in my dream ran right up and presented herself. It was a little unnerving. I’m not a “dreams and visions” guy, even back when I was dreaming, so this was very unsettling. I told Krista about the dream and we took the dog home. She was not very doodley.
I wanted to name her Nooma, because she reminded me of a ghost, but the rest of the family (thankfully) overruled me and we settled on Lucy – which was just as apropos, since it means light - and she was bright white and was an immediate lift to the spirit of the house.
Lucy turned us into kinder people - there’s no denying that. She had a face that invited us to be the best versions of ourselves to each other and to those around us. She was always just a little on alert, but that made her couch snuggle or tail-wag greeting all the better. She was fiercely protective of our home and family, but once she figured out you were ok, she wouldn’t leave you alone.
It’s hard to see the creatures you love (and who have shown you how to love more deeply) quickly decline. We thought we had several more years, but the tumors grew faster than anyone (especially Lucy) expected. To watch her try to be herself and not succeed was the most difficult part of the last few days.
We were able to have all the family there as we held her and said goodbye as she took her last breath.
This really was the dog of my dreams in so many ways. I kept whispering to her in those final moments to “come visit me in my dreams again.” She helped me dream well – a dream about what the world could be when we are kinder to each other. She helped me pay attention to the world around me with a gentler focus. She helped me know that how you love something is how you love everything.
I hope she does visit me in my dreams; but even if she doesn’t, she’s taught me how to dream again – not while I’m asleep (that’s still hit or miss), but while I’m fully awake to opportunities of love right in front of me. I can never thank her enough for that gift.
We used to sing an old Compline (day’s end) prayer with the kids when they were young. I leaned on that again today at Lucy’s death:
“Protect us Lord, as we stay awake,
Watch over us as we sleep,
That awake, we may keep watch with Christ,
And asleep, rest in His peace."
Rest in His peace, ghostly dog of my dreams. You have done well, and I am a better person for your time with us.
Lucy on her first day home with us from the rescue:
Lucy in the shop:
Lucy always enduring the attempts at humor via outfits:
An apology pic after a not so gentle play date with another dog:
Lucy welcoming Tumnus to the family:
A Nice Flowchart to Have on Hand
One of my favorite flowcharts.
from Nadia Bolz-Weber at As requested - my flow chart when I am freaked out.
Dog Poems
This one’s hitting in a new and tender way today:
Her Grave
Mary Oliver
She would come back, dripping thick water, from the
green bog.
She would fall at my feet, she would draw the black skin
from her gums, in a hideous and wonderful smile —
and I would rub my hands over her pricked ears and her
cunning elbows,
and I would hug the barrel of her body, amazed at the
unassuming perfect arch of her neck.It took four of us to carry her into the woods.
We did not think of music,
but anyway, it began to rain
slowly.Her wolfish, invitational, half-pounce.
Her great and lordly satisfaction at having chased
something.My great and lordly satisfaction at her splash
of happiness as she barged
through the pitch pines swiping my face with her
wild, slightly mossy tongue.Does the hummingbird think he himself invented his
crimson throat?
He is wiser than that, I think.A dog lives fifteen years, if you’re lucky.
Do the cranes crying out in the high clouds
think it is all their own music?A dog comes to you and lives with you in your own house,
but you
do not therefore own her, as you do not own the rain, or the
trees, or the laws which pertain to them.Does the bear wandering in the autumn up the side of
the hill
think all by herself she has imagined the refuge and the
refreshment
of her long slumber?A dog can never tell you what she knows from the
smells of the world, but you know, watching her,
that you know
almost nothing.Does the water snake with his backbone of diamonds think
the black tunnel on the bank of the pond is a palace
of his own making?She roved ahead of me through the fields, yet would come
back,
or wait for me, or be somewhere.Now she is buried under the pines.
Nor will I argue it, or pray for anything but modesty, and
not to be angry.Through the trees there is the sound of the wind,
palavering.The smell of the pine needles, what is it but a taste
of the infallible energies?How strong was her dark body!
How apt is her grave place.How beautiful is her unshakable sleep.
Finally,
the slick mountains of love break
over us.
Please Use AI
Nice one about how serendipity is at the core of the human experience.
Definitely do not text your friend who has fly-fished every river in Pennsylvania and biked every backwoods trail, because you might end up texting back and forth for the rest of the day or even meeting up late for a beer and hearing how he has ended each recent night black-out drunk, or perhaps you’ll hear how his cousin is an idiot on Facebook or maybe just that he repaired his own washing machine and is pretty damn proud of that.