I had a few hours alone in the car yesterday, and I’m cramming for book club tomorrow night so I listened to Liane Moriarty’s What Alice Forgot to and from. Alice has a head injury that causes her to forget the last ten years of her life. I’m not finished with the book, so I can’t recommend it yet, but it does stir up some interesting questions. Where were was I ten years ago? Would my ten-year-younger self like who I am today? What would surprise my younger self about what the future holds? Do I have anything to learn by remembering who I was and where I was ten years ago?
As usual, I’m almost always surprised by what comes up when I sit down to respond to a prompt. It’s like inspiration shows up in the form of that little jazz hands emoji waving and saying, “Surprise, this is what I want to talk about today.” My last ten years included a long run in meaningful ministry, the birth of all three of my children, a move to a big old house and an ongoing restoration process, a couple of career adjustments for my husband, and a host of other significant events. I did not expect to write about my eleven year old apricot poodle. But he’s what bubbled up, and since this is always really about that, I discovered that I do, of course, have something to learn from my ten-year-younger self.
Where were you ten years ago?
I have no idea exactly where I was on March 27, 2007. I was thirty years old and married for almost five years. We didn’t have any children yet. We were settled into our first house and my first call as a pastor. Our sweet old blind dog Louie had been with us less than a year. He wasn’t old or blind then, of course, but he did have a staph infection in his bone that took a lot of treatment and a lot of consulting the experts in College Station. I don’t remember exactly when all that started, but Louie’s capacity to develop rare infections became a regular thing in our house for several years. We had adopted him from Poodle Rescue of Houston. He was carsick the whole long drive home. My dog growing up loved the car so much it never occurred to me that a dog could be carsick. I took a week from work to house train him and teach him to walk on a leash and help him feel at home with us. He was a good dog, but he was so shy. I carried him to the park near our house because he refused to budge on the leash. We sat on a park bench until he got curious enough about the scents that he ventured out to the end of the lead and pulled me across the entire park. I felt so much pride in my dog-mom instincts.
Louie, it turns out, wasn’t shy. I walked him with his newfound leash skills to a friend’s house to feed and check on her big dogs while she was away. I had to come home and give Louie a bath. He spent the entire time ordering those dogs around like he was eighty pounds of power, not eleven. And sure enough, over these last ten years, we’ve never met another dog that Louie didn’t boss around. I remember Gerry playing on the floor with him, getting him to run those wild obstacle courses around the house or our big back yard. We laughed so hard every single time at that display of unbridled energy and doggy joy.
As I write this, I realize Louie is still in his crate. My husband who usually lets him out left the house before anyone was awake and none of the rest of us remembered to get him. When I put this pen down, I’ll have to carry him to his doggy door and show him to his special diet food in his dish. We live in a different house now, a split level. Poor Louie can’t do the smallest step down without trepidation. We have a great yard for him to explore, but these days his every step is tentative and careful. I wish that one of his grandmothers was here more often to sit and pet him and slip him treats behind our backs.
The truth is that many days, I’m frustrated by Louie – his crying to get where he needs to go, the barking like crazy at the simplest sounds like shutting a cabinet door, his ability to find the trash and eat out of it when he can’t find anything else I have three little humans’ needs to meet these days, and most days that alone feels like more than I have to give. It bothers me that I don’t have more compassion for Louie, that I don’t make more effort to remember and honor the dog he was. If I did, maybe my capacity to respect who he is today would increase. Is this what will happen to me when I ‘m older, blinder, needier than I am today? Is this how I’m treating aging people, not just aging dogs?
If I did forget the last ten years, I think I would be heartbroken for Louie’s condition. Of course, I also would be totally shocked and completely overwhelmed by the discovery that I have three children counting on me. Maybe it would be a gift of sorts to be delighted by them all for the first time again. Would my thirty year old self be disappointed in my forty-year old self? Would she be amazed at all the balls I’m keeping in the air today or would she be so sad at the ones I’ve dropped, like this sweet fuzzy creature waiting on me?
Ten years ago life was less complicated, but I bet I didn’t think so then. Ten years from now, life may be simpler again, but I’ll be fifty and have two teenage boys still at home, so probably not. Just like ten years ago, I have no way of knowing what the future holds, only who holds it, and who hopefully is shaping me for the better with each passing decade.
Where were you ten years ago? I want to know! Email your responses to shannon@lifeprompted.com