From the Rector…
Banshee, also known as Church Dog, died on Sunday at noon. I left church right after the announcements so I could be with her and Steve, and I sat by her side, listening to the church bells ring out from First United Methodist as she took her final breath. It was poetic and sorrow-filled, but I knew she was at peace—and she deserved that. Her last few months had become increasingly difficult, and in the 72 hours before her death, she barely moved. She was a good dog, and she loved us well these past seventeen years.
In the months leading up to Banshee’s death, I noticed that she would often linger in doorways. Though she slept most of the time, when she did get up and walk around the house, she would stop at a threshold and stand there, blocking the path for everyone else. It was, to say the least, annoying. But I had the impression that her standing in the middle of the doorway was a metaphor for her lingering between life and death.
For a couple of years now, Steve and I joked that Banshee was the dog who would not die, mainly because of her stubbornness. She would become sick, and we would think, “This is it,” only for her to bounce back to life and keep going. She grew a large tumor on her leg and we finally decided to have it removed—something we were reluctant to do, as old dogs don’t always survive surgery or anesthesia—but she returned with renewed energy and vitality. A year ago, she was diagnosed with a seizure disorder, and we didn’t think she would survive the weekend. She did, but the vet told us that she probably only had about three months to live. She lived another year and a week and never had another seizure.
When she was thirteen, we were sure the end was near and decided to go ahead and get the Tweedles—Petunia and Archibald, our basset hounds. By then, Banshee was getting slower, sleeping most of the day, and lacking energy or desire to do much of anything. She was eating less and less, and we had to coax her to finish her food. But once the Tweedles arrived, Banshee found renewed energy and joy. She would romp around the backyard with the puppies, playing with them and teaching them how to live in a pack. She was in her element, and we were delighted.
Looking back, I can see how these last few years were a reflection of her standing in the doorway between life and death. She has had two paws in this world and two paws in the next for some time. As the end came nearer, her lingering in doorways symbolized her existence in the liminal spaces of life—those in-between times when we aren’t quite here but haven’t quite gotten there.
Liminal spaces are sacred spaces. They represent movement or transition from one time or purpose to the next. When we become aware of them, they become holy moments of wonder and gratitude. They invite peace beyond all understanding. These spaces are not problems or difficulties to be overcome or solved, but moments of mystery that, when held lightly, unfold in ways that deepen our relationship with God and love for one another.
Banshee was a liminal space for me—a sacred time in which I got to care for her and she for me. I admit, I will not miss the inconveniences of caring for her in her final years, but I will miss her. She taught me about releasing control and trusting that things will work out. She taught me about forgiveness and God’s unconditional love for us. Most importantly, she taught me how to hold loosely to this life and live in it as I might live in the one to come. She has crossed through the
liminal space of this world into the heavenly one of our eternal hope; and I will linger in the doorways of the already and the not yet of this life.
Light and Life,
Candice+