THE BEST LETTER EVER
Some of you may know that our 14 year old dog, Abbey, died last month (10/23).
The day after she died, my 4 year old daughter Meredith was crying and talking
about how much she missed Abbey. She asked if we could write a letter to God so
that when Abbey got to heaven, God would recognize her.
She dictated and I wrote:
"Dear God,
Will you please take special care of our dog, Abbey? She died yesterday and is
in heaven. We miss her very much. We are happy that you let us have her as our
dog even though she got sick. I hope that you will play with her. She likes to
play with balls and swim before she got sick. I am sending some pictures of her
so that when you see her in heaven you will know she is our special dog. But I
really do miss her.
Love,
Meredith Claire
ps: Mommy wrote the words after Mer told them to her"
We put that in an envelope with 2 pictures of Abbey, and addressed it to
God/Heaven. We put our return address on it. Then Mer stuck some stamps on the
front because, as she said, it may take lots of stamps to get a letter all the
way to heaven) and that afternoon I let her drop it into the letter box at the
post office. For a few days, she would ask if God had gotten the letter yet. I
told her that I thought He had. Yesterday, we took the kids to
Curious, I went to look at it. It had a gold star card on the front and said
"To: Mer" in an unfamiliar hand. Meredith took it in and opened it.
Inside was a book by Mr. Rogers, "When a Pet Dies." Taped to the inside front
cover was the letter we had written to God, in its opened envelope (which was
marked Return to Sender: Insufficient address). On the opposite page, one of the
pictures of Abbey was taped under the words "For Meredith." We turned to the
back cover, and there was the other picture of Abbey, and this handwritten note
on pink paper:
"Dear Mer,
I know that you will be happy to know that Abbey arrived safely and soundly in
Heaven! Having the pictures you sent to me was such a big help.
I recognized Abbey right away. You know, Meredith, she isn't sick anymore.
Her spirit is here with me--just like she stays in your heart--young and running
and playing. Abbey loved being your dog, you know. Since we don't need our
bodies in heaven, I don't have any pockets!-- so I can't keep
your beautiful letter. I am sending it to you with the pictures so that you will
have this book to keep and remember Abbey. One of my angels is taking care of
this for me. I hope the little book helps. Thank you for the beautiful letter.
Thank your mother for sending it. What a wonderful mother you have! I picked her
especially for you. I send my blessings every day and remember that I love you
very much. By the way, I am wherever there is love.
Love,
God,
and the special angel who wrote this after God told her the words."
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As a parent and a pet lover, this is one of the kindest things that I've ever
experienced. I have no way to know who sent it, but there is some very kind soul
working in the dead letter office of the
Treat me kindly, my beloved
friend, for no heart in all the world
is more grateful for kindness than
the loving heart of me.
Do not break my spirit with a
stick, for though I should lick your
hand between blows, your patience,
and understanding will more
quickly teach me the things you
would have me learn.
Speak to me often, for your voice
is the world's sweetest music, as
you must know by the fierce
wagging of my tail when your
footstep falls upon my waiting ear.
Please take me inside when it is
cold and wet, for I am a
domesticated animal, no longer
accustomed to bitter elements.
I ask no greater glory than the
privilege of sitting at your feet
beside the hearth.
Keep my pan filled with fresh
water, for I can not tell you when
I suffer thirst.
Feed me clean food that I may
stay well, to romp and play and do
your bidding. to walk by your side,
and stand ready. willing and able to
protect you.
And, my friend, when I am very
old, and I no longer enjoy good
health, hearing and sight, do not
make heroic efforts to keep me
going. I am not having any fun.
Please see that my trusting life is
taken gently. I shall leave this earth
knowing with the last breath I draw
that my fate was always safest in
your hands.
- Anonymous
There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.
Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie --
Perfect passion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To risk your heart for a dog to tear.
When the fourteen years which
Nature permits Are closing in asthma,or tumour,or fits,
And the vet's unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
Then you will find -- it's your own affair --
But . . . you've given your heart to a dog to tear.
When the body that lived at your single will,
With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!)
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone -- wherever it goes -- for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart to a dog to tear.
We've sorrow enough in the natural way,
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent.
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we've kept'em, the more do we grieve;
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-time loan is as bad as a long --
So why in -- Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?
- R.Kipling. --------------------
I wish someone had given Jesus a dogMY FIRST CHRISTMAS IN HEAVEN
As loyal and loving as mine
To sleep by his manger and gaze in His eyes
And adore Him for being divine.
As our Lord grew to manhood, his faithful dog
Would have followed Him all through the day
While He preached to the crowds and made the sick well
And knelt in the garden to pray.
It is sad to remember that Christ went away
To face death alone and apart
With no tender dog following close behind
To comfort its Master's heart.
And when Jesus rose on that Easter morn
How happy He would have been
As his dog kissed His hands and barked its delight
For the One who died for all men.
Well, the Lord has a dog now, I just sent him mine
The old pal so dear to me
And I smile through my tears on this first day alone
Knowing they're in eternity.
- AnonymousGOD ANSWERED MY PRAYERS"Watch out! You nearly broadsided that car!" my father yelled at me. "Can't you do anything right?" Those words hurt worse than blows. I turned my head toward the elderly man in the seat beside me, daring me to challenge him. A lump rose in my throat as I averted my eyes. I wasn't prepared for another battle. "I saw the car, Dad. Please don't yell at me when I'm driving." My voice was measured and steady, sounding far calmer than I really felt. Dad glared at me, then turned away and settled back. At home, I left Dad in front of the television and went outside to collect my thoughts. Dark heavy clouds hung in the air with a promise of rain. The rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo my inner turmoil. What could I do about him? Dad had been a lumberjack in Washington and Oregon. He had enjoyed being outdoors and had reveled in pitting his strength against the forces of nature. He had entered grueling lumberjack competitions and had often placed among the winners. The shelves in his house had been filled with trophies that attested to his prowess. The years marched on relentlessly. The first time he couldn't lift a heavy log, he joked about it; but later that same day I saw him outside alone, straining to lift it. He became irritable whenever anyone teased him about his advancing age, or when he couldn't do something he had done as a younger man. Four days after his 67th birthday, he had a heart attack. An ambulance sped him to the hospital while a paramedic administered CPR to keep blood and oxygen flowing. At the hospital, Dad was rushed into an operating room. He was lucky; he survived. But something inside dad died. His zest for life was gone. He obstinately refused to follow doctor's orders. Suggestions and offers of help were turned aside with sarcasm and insults. The number of visitors thinned, then finally stopped altogether. Dad was left alone. My husband, Dick, and I asked Dad to come live with us on our small farm. We hoped the fresh air and rustic atmosphere would help him adjust. Within a week after he moved in I regretted the invitation. It seemed nothing was satisfactory. He criticized everything I did. I became frustrated and moody. Soon I was taking my pent-up anger out on Dick. We began to bicker and argue. Alarmed, Dick sought out our pastor and explained the situation. The clergyman set up weekly counseling appointments for us. At the close of each session he prayed, asking God to soothe Dad's troubled mind. But the months wore on and God was silent. A raindrop struck my cheek. I looked up into the gray sky. Somewhere up there was "God". Although I believed a Supreme Being had created the universe I had difficulty believing that God cared about the tiny human beings on this earth. I was tired of waiting for a God who didn't answer. Something had to be done and it was up to me to do it. The next afternoon I sat down with the phone book and methodically called each of the Mental Heath clinics listed in the yellow pages. I explained my problem to each of the sympathetic voices that answered. In vain. Just when I was giving up hope, one of the voices suddenly exclaimed, "I just read something that might help you! Let me go get the article." I listened as she read. The article described a remarkable study done at a nursing home. All of the patients were under treatment for chronic depression. Yet their attitudes had improved dramatically when they were given responsibility for a dog. I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon. After I filled out a questionnaire, a uniformed officer led me to the kennels The odor of disinfectant stung my nostrils as I moved down the row of pens. Each contained five to seven dogs. Long-haired dogs, curly haired dogs, black dogs, spotted dogs; all jumped up, trying to reach me. I studied each one but rejected one after the other for various reasons - too big, too small, too much hair. As I neared the last pen, a dog in the shadows of the far corner struggled to his feet, walked to the front of the pen and sat down. It was a pointer,
one of the dog world's aristocrats. But this was a caricature of the breed. Years had etched his face and muzzle with shades of gray. His hipbones
jutted out in lopsided triangles. But it was his eyes that caught and held my attention. Calm and clear, they beheld me unwaveringly.
I pointed to the dog. "Can you tell me about him?" The officer looked, then shook his head in puzzlement. "He's a funny one. Appeared out of nowhere
and sat in front of the gate. We brought him in, figuring someone would be right down to claim him. That was two weeks ago and we've heard nothing.
His time is up tomorrow." He gestured helplessly.
As the words sank in, I turned to the man in horror. "You mean you're going to kill him?"
"Ma'am", he said gently, "that's our policy. We don't have room for every unclaimed dog." I looked at the pointer again. The calm brown eyes awaited
my decision. "I'll take him," I said.
I drove home with the dog on the front seat beside me. When I reached the house I honked the horn twice. I was helping my prize out of the car when
Dad shuffled out onto the front porch. "Ta-da! Look what I got for you, Dad!" I said excitedly. Dad looked, then wrinkled his face in disgust. "If
I had wanted a dog I would have gotten one. And, I would have picked out a better specimen that that bag of bones. Keep it! I don't want it!" Dad
waved his arm scornfully and turned back into the house.
Anger rose inside me. It squeezed together my throat muscles and pounded into my temples. "You'd better get used to him, Dad. He's staying!" Dad
ignored me. "Did you hear me, Dad?" I screamed. At those words Dad whirled angrily, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes narrowed and blazing
with hate. We stood glaring at each other like duelists, when suddenly the pointer pulled free from my grasp. He wobbled toward my Dad and sat down
in front of him. Then slowly, carefully, he raised his paw.
Dad's lower jaw trembled as he stared at the uplifted paw. Confusion replaced the anger in his eyes. The pointer waited patiently. Then Dad was on
his knees, hugging the animal.
That was the beginning of a warm and intimate friendship. Dad named the pointer Cheyenne. Together he and Cheyenne explored the community. They
spent long hours walking down dusty lanes. They spent reflective moments on the banks of streams, angling for tasty trout. They even started to
attend Sunday services together, Dad sitting in a pew and Cheyenne lying quietly at his feet.
Dad and Cheyenne were inseparable throughout the next three years. Dad's bitterness faded and he and Cheyenne made many friends. Then, late one
night I was startled to feel Cheyenne's cold nose burrowing through our bed covers.
He had never before come into our bedroom at night. I woke Dick, put on my robe and ran into my father's room. Dad lay in his bed, his face serene,
but his spirit had left quietly sometime during the night.
Two days later my shock and grief deepened when I discovered Cheyenne lying dead beside Dad's bed. I wrapped his still form in the rag rug he had
slept on. As Dick and I buried him near a favorite fishing hole, I silently thanked the dog for the help he had given me in restoring Dad's peace
of mind.
The morning of Dad's funeral dawned overcast and dreary. This day looks like the way I feel, I thought as I walked down the aisle to the pews
reserved for family. I was surprised to see the many friends Dad and Cheyenne had made filling the church. The pastor began his eulogy. It was
a tribute to both Dad and the dog who had changed his life.
And then the pastor turned to Hebrews13:2."Be not forgetful to entertain strangers". "I've often thanked God for sending that angel,"
he said.
For me, the past dropped into place, completing a puzzle that I had not seen before the sympathetic voice that had read the right article...
Cheyenne's unexpected appearance at the animal shelter...his calm acceptance and complete devotion to my father...and the proximity of their deaths.
And I suddenly understood. I knew God had answered my prayers after all.