If I could walk with the animals and talk with the animals
Grunt, squeak, squawk with the animals
And they could squeak and squawk
And speak and talk to me
They would talk too
— Sammy Davis Jr.
On the day of Joey’s memorial, I referenced the hymn “It is Well with My Soul.”
That day, I had said it wasn’t at all well with my soul.
I had hoped that, by now, two years, one month, fifteen days and seventeen hours later I could report it was.
–at the very least, well-ish.
It’s still not.
As my self-awareness permits, I tell only the truth of this nightmare—the good or good-ish, the very bad and the unbearably ugly.
On a mountain bike ride the other day, I was reminded of this passage I had written several years ago. A day years before the sky began to fall:
“With my Giant bike plastered to the back of my teeny MINI Cooper,
I headed out of my neighborhood, down the hill, and stopped behind a
car at a red light. To my left, I noticed a man approaching the intersec-
tion on the sidewalk. He had on a solid blue T-shirt with white lettering
and a gigantic smile plastered on his beaming face. Even from that dis-
tance, I could see that the proportion of his pearly whites to his head was
striking. I don’t know if he pushed the “walk” button or not, but his grin
was pure joy—as if he just couldn’t contain it; as if he had a secret or a
treasure; as if he had the best news in the entire world that he yearned to
exclaim. Then I noticed the bold white letters on his shirt, exclaiming,
“JESUS LOVES YOU.”
“In the rear-view window of the car ahead of me, I could see the driver’s
eyes, and he had noticed the man’s radiating presence too. I saw them
wave to each other. The pedestrian’s smile never broke.
“As the light turned green and the car entered the intersection, I
moved forward. Making eye contact with the man who was still smiling
that crazy, joyful smile, I gave him my smile, a nod, and a thumbs up.
He returned my gestures. At the very moment that all of this was unfolding,
a melodic, almost haunting tune came from my radio. Miraculously
synchronized, the music in my car became a soundtrack to the scene I
was in with this stranger as the voice in the song repeated, “I should have
known, I should have known . . .”
“Translated: Duh, why do you forget?
“I don’t claim the writer of those lyrics was speaking of Jesus’s love. But
I’ve lived long enough to know that God can use anything He wants to
get our attention and declare words of truth. What was coming through
my Sirius XM “heavenly” radio were His words, passing through my own
heart, speaking aloud as reminders to myself that “I should have known,
I should have known.” I should have known that Jesus loves me, that He’s
never left me, that He’s loved me all along, even when I stray from the
path. I turned the corner at the intersection and began wiping the tears
from beneath my sunglasses, tears that flowed the entire two miles to the
trailhead.
“The trailhead itself quickly descends into a gorge and a series of whoop-
de-doos, a single track much like a dirt-path roller coaster. I call it Mr.
Toad’s Wild Ride. Most mountain-biking locals call it “Water Works”
because this section is behind and below a water district building. It’s chal-
lenging, nerve-wracking, and exhilarating, especially for a postmenopausal
woman like me who doesn’t exactly want to tear anything else on her body
but who really likes to have fun.
“The trail is a contrast, a true “mixed bag” complete with sudden,
vertical hills and drops; twisty-turns; bumps and quick dips; rocks and
boulders; dirt and mud; creeks and streams; bright, arid desert; shaded,
verdant tropics; and flat sections through sunlit, color-burst meadows.
And you can bet there’ll be a proliferation of cottontail bunnies always,
no matter which part of the trail or the time of day. However, if you go
especially early in the morning, it’s crazy-town bunny-wise.
“At the parking lot, I removed my bike from the car, put on my helmet
and gloves, and headed toward the Wild Ride section. Standing at the
precipice, it occurred to me for the first time that I ought to pray before
a ride—for protection, that Jesus would be with me. Not only that, that
I would feel Him.
“I took off, charging down through Mr. Toad’s segment, until I got
to the bottom and onto the main section of the path. Everywhere along
the trail, all the way to O’Neill Campground and back again, there were
more cottontails than I’d ever seen before. It reminded me of a sailing trip
with my friend Stacie, who was battling brain cancer. On that near-perfect
spring day, we got an unforgettable, undeniable dolphin show as they
joined us for a ride-along.
“It was a taste of that on the fourteen miles of mountain-bike trail this
day. Instead of a proliferation of dolphins, I was engulfed in bunny rab-
bits. Cottontails everywhere, bounding and bouncing, scampering back
and forth, be-bopping, popping up and down like popcorn. They even
showed off by rocketing across the trail an inch in front of my tire over
and over again, and then sort of looking back over their bunny shoulder
to see if I was impressed.
“I was.
“As I rode, I noticed their fluffy, pure white tails—all of them with
these little puffs of cloud on their bunny butts.
“It occurred to me that God didn’t have to add the tail, or that He
could have added the tail, but did He have to make it such a bright white?
Like an exclamation point? It’s not like bunnies aren’t cute enough. He
added that detail for some reason. What was it?
“It seems to me that God gets a kick out of the little things, both here
on this little bunny cotton trail below the concrete, and above, where
strangers stand at traffic lights with other-worldly smiles.
“There are so many things we should notice. On any given day, any of
these things could remind us that we should have known.
“The evidences everywhere . . . those nuances that might go unseen
and unfelt if we’re not really paying attention, or if our heart is a little
frozen and we’re just stuck? Maybe these are all part of His tale, ways God
is telling His story. If I don’t convince you of My love with a bouncing gray
bunny across your path, let Me add a white, fluffy tail as an exclamation point.”
I’ll tell you why I was reminded of this passage on my ride a few days ago: I crossed paths with a herd of deer, too many to count.
I had heard the rustling and slowed my peddling. That’s when I saw the first deer peek from the wooded brush like the trusted leader-scout. Turning its head in my direction, we stopped and locked eyes, ala the Larry David staredown in “Curb your Enthusiasm.” And like poetry in motion, the brave deer slow-motion gazelle-like galloped across the path—and the rest, trusting, single-file, followed suit like a fluid and elegant deer parade.
Having been engulfed in the proliferation of dolphins, bunnies, and deer, I still can’t and won’t say losing my son is even well-ish with my soul, but on a good or good-ish day, I watch, I listen to the animals. I risk—believing Jesus loves me.
