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It is impossible to be unaffected by loss. When you’ve endured loss, another’s grief resonates more closely than you’d like. It’s almost as if there are tears you find, that remind you how you’re still not done crying for your own losses. Perhaps it is what enables us to feel some sort of empathy. Otherwise, we may all be sitting in some pristine tower looking down at how weak those who’re grieving are.

Grief hits hard. It hits very hard.

More often than not, we’re told to be strong. The appearance of stoicism, the ability to hold back tears and block emotion from appearing are much lauded. We comment on how strong someone must be just coz they’re able to get back to things almost immediately. We don’t seem to hold in esteem anyone who’s struggling or who needs more time. It’s almost as if there’s a judgment box. How long more will they need to grieve? Why’s it taking so long to recover? Why can’t they just get over it?

Grief hits hard. It hits very hard.

I think that we’ve been brought up to downplay our grief. Letting tears show is a definite sign of weakness. We’ve been thought to blink back. We’ve been taught to suppress any feelings of sadness and to do all we can to forget. Sometimes, after you’ve lost someone dear, you find that not many people who will give you the space to speak of them. We’re meant to speak only of happy things. Drown your sorrows. Don’t let your pain be seen. Saying this, I must add that bereavement isn’t the only source of grief. We cry because of breakups, divorce, job or financial losses, health issues, etc. The list is a long one.

Grief hits hard. It hits very hard.

This unnatural approach to grief perhaps shows us how out of touch we are with ourselves and our true natures. I write as a Christian and it is through this lens that I process my grief. It’s been a long journey of learning as I grieve over various things. It has been such a remarkable journey and as I read God’s Word and process things, I have felt like I’ve been made to face my grief head on. There has been no shirking back, no ignoring the facts as they present themselves.

Grief hits hard. It hits very hard.

So what does my Christian world view say? It tells me that because of Jesus’ death and resurrection, all believers will have eternal life (John 3:16). This is the greatest and most glorious gift ever to believers. Believers cling to this truth. We believe that the Son of God emptied Himself of glory and identified Himself as man to die for us (Philippians 2: 5-8). This truth also informs me that when we bid our farewells to fellow believers, we are not to grieve like those without hope (1 Thessalonians 4: 13-18). This is a promise on how all those who have gone on before us will rise. The life that we will have is beyond any of the troubles we face right now, which are temporal in nature (Romans 8:18, 2 Corinthians 4:17, 1 Peter 5: 10). The promise isn’t that there will be bliss the moment you accept Christ. That’s not the case. In fact, it is quite the opposite. The good news is that all the pain we feel in this present life is temporal and there will come a day when we no longer have to battle with flesh and decay the way we do now. It will be life the way it was intended – without sin infiltrating it and causing all sorts of problems. There will be no more death one day. But until then, we have no escape. Our loved ones die. We die too. All these promises remind us of one big thing: the world as it is isn’t how God intended it to be. There’s a lot that will really upset us.

Grief hits hard. It hits very hard.

Take Jesus when he goes to Lazarus after the later has died. We’re simply told that He wept (John 11:35). He wept. He who was about to raise Lazarus, wept. He wept because death is indeed a hard burden to bear and it shows exactly how things aren’t meant to be. He gives us a model of how we can weep. He gives us an example of how much death moves us (John 11:38). The Lord of life showed us how hard grief is. He showed us that it is okay for us to be moved by it even though it is temporary. So if loss hits hard, it is okay. If it moves you or causes you to stagger, it is okay. It is okay if it leaves some kind of mark. However, be comforted because Jesus didn’t just leave it there. If He had, there would be no reason to say we can grieve but not as those without hope. The story doesn’t end with Lazarus’s temporal resurrection. Lazarus did eventually die. The story progresses to Jesus heading towards Jerusalem to take our place on the cross, accepting the humiliation and torture that was ours and embracing the death which was meant to be ours. Again that’s not the end. It goes on to show Jesus rising again from the dead and ultimately defeating death for us all. So yes, whilst as believers we have this pain of death, we also have the certain hope of a resurrection. Perhaps now, as we go through the pain of grief, there can be moments of comfort where we can see that whilst grief may hit us hard, because of Jesus, that hit is temporary. Let us not, however, dismiss the suffering of a fellow believer as they mourn a loss. Rather, let us remember how our Lord Himself wept. It wasn’t a display of weakness. It was sorrow for the way things aren’t how they are meant to be. Perhaps it is in the depths of our sorrow, that we too display the heart of Christ. Perhaps it is in that moment of sadness and loss, that He grants us insight into how it really isn’t okay. Perhaps we can be bold and embrace these tears- which are temporary. For we also know that whilst we sorrow, there will come a day when we rejoice. That rejoicing will never cease. Unlike our sorrow, it isn’t temporal. It will be forever. Yes, grief does hit hard. Yes, it hits very hard. But no – it doesn’t last forever.

Gamora is slightly over three months old. Her mama is a dachshund while her papa a pug. She was born on 6 December 2022. She came to live with us on 13 March and as I write this, has only been with us for a couple of days. She seems to have settled in well. One of the clearest bits of evidence for this is how she’s able to sleep with her legs all stuck up in the air. She does know how to strike a pose, this one!

I first met Gamora when I went to visit her brother. Someone reached out to me about taking on a pup. Up to now, I’d never had a female dog and I wasn’t quite sure if I knew enough to care for one. Mostly, I wasn’t sure if I could after lose Loki. It’s been very painful. When I finally agreed to meet the pups, I only considered Gamora’s brother. Gamora coming home with me almost didn’t happen!

I went through a whole roller coaster of emotions when thinking about whether to get another pup. I feel the loss of Loki every day. There’s so much of Loki in my life. A friend gave me a painting of Loki, and I’ve put it on my table. It really looks like he’s peering at me in the same way he would’ve done when trying to get may attention. It’s such a gorgeous painting! I still feel tears welling up when I go to the park where Loki and I used to walk together. It’s where I still walk but it’s been tough. Not having him next to me at the end of leash, trotting along in merry fashion, is hard. He loved that park. I loved going there with him. There’s still a lot of sadness when I think of Loki. Often, I wonder if there could’ve been some other way.

I especially appreciated the counsel of four friends. One is such a long-time friend from my time in university. She’s got a grand-fur kid! Such privilege, it feels. A couple of others have now moved away. One has a pooch who helped train my beloved Patches and who’s a grand old man now, while the other has a young pup who does crazy zoomies in the snow. Yet another was a former colleague who’s taken on a couple of pups after suffering the loss of a couple of fur kids. He’s being reminded of how these little creatures rule our worlds. Their words, for which I am so incredibly grateful, were measured and compassionate. They alleviated any pressure and guilt that I felt. It was fine either way – whether I took another pup or not. Armed with this, I went, and it was then when I first met Gamora, though it was her brother that I paid attention to.

The first time I met Gamora, she was the most eager to be fed. She was also extremely friendly and jolly. I hadn’t considered her at the time, only her brother. It was obvious that the pups were healthy and jolly. The pups interacted well with their parents and each other. It was such a sweet picture. I found myself thinking of Loki – comparing his horrific start to life to this happy family. It was hard not to. I said I’d think about it, and then in a couple of days decided not to go ahead. I was so worried that I’d not be able to properly love a new fur kid. All of this was followed by a series of events that made me feel like I was on a roller coaster ride. My dad had a nasty fall but was miraculously unhurt. Then, an uncle passed away. It feels so sad to see my aunt and cousins go through this loss. In connection with that, we also made a visit to my mum’s grave. I’d not been there since 2010/11. I find it hard to go. It was hard being there. Waves of emotions that I’ve not felt in a while made themselves present. It was hard. I state only the gist of it all. It really felt like I was going through the wringer, and I felt like I needed the therapy these fur kids bring.

It was strange how I then decided to get another pup. I was walking in the park and met with a former neighbour. She started telling me about their new golden retriever, young still and I felt her joy of looking after a young one. We talked for a good hour as we walked. I then started work, kept thinking of the conversation and as I prepared to drive out for a meeting, I checked to see if Gamora’s brother was still available. Some people had paid a booking fee for Gamora’s brother, but I was told they’d be okay to take Gamora if I had my heart set on the brother. Something told me to go with an open mind. When I went, Gamora refused to let her brother come anywhere near me! She’d be the first to get some treats from me. She was the first to come running up to me and she readily stayed in my arms for ages. She got me!

It was quite late when I got Gamora, and I was worried that the first night would be disastrous. I was also worried that she’d be depressed from being removed from her happy family. I was worried for nothing. The first night, she cuddled up to me, refusing to let go of my arm. She slept soundly right through to the morning. She settles fine when I’m nearby and she’s so very playful. I feel twinges of pain when I compare this to Loki’s early days. How he suffered with his injury. He couldn’t run about or be curious unlike little Gamora. There is sadness there. Yet it’s impossible not to laugh out loud watching Gamora’s antics. She chased a bird today and was puzzled how it managed to get so high. She tried to eat a flower, which I had to take out of her mouth. She playfully charges and dashes about and is quite the explorer. It’s funny how she tugs at everything, rolls about, and turns up for belly rubs. She’s showing a liking for carrots and apples, which is great as she is teething. I must say she infinitely prefers my fingers to any other treat! She’s got great bursts of energy and then crashes like there’s not a care in the world. Just so lovely to see.

In all of this, I see God’s Hand. Loki was a bittersweet blessing. The pain of losing him will take awhile to heal. Yet, Loki came to me at a point when I was struggling with my illness. With his handicap, we kept pace with each other! I was never too slow for him nor was he too quick for me. His ability to cope with his limitations and his tenacity taught me many things. It was easy to see God’s grace in Loki’s life and he helped me see God’s grace in mine when I was prone to forget. Similarly, it was not difficult to see Loki smile and enjoy life despite his severe PTSD. It helped me to appreciate things so much more. Now, with Gamora, it feels like a whole new chapter. This little one followed me so bravely into the world, leaving behind all she knew. She trusted and is continuing to build trust with me. I haven’t been able to shake this perception of Gamora. It points me in the direction I need to be with God. Trusting. Following. And I must continue to work on building trust. It’s a two-way thing. I must be willing. There needs to be an openness. This little pup is showing me that. God’s given me so much more than I can ever give little Gamora. So, as I watch this little pup grow and as I learn to trust her and have her trust me, I will keep remembering our God who’s already given me so much that I can trust in Him. I will follow.

It is lovely having Gamora in our home. She’s endearing herself to us through her many tools! As difficult as it was to get to this moment of having Gamora here as mine, I am very thankful to God for the conversations, reflections, and prayers that have gone on to lead me to her. What a journey it has been, and it is only the beginning.

Dearest Loki,

Gosh, how I miss you, my sweet, sweet Loki. How much I think of you. How much I cry. It all feels surreal. Almost like our home’s not adjusted to the silence.

Now, there’s another little fella who needs a home. He’s not quite as young as you were when you came to me. He’ll be three months old on 6 March. Right off the bat, when I watch videos of him, my heart grieves for you- he was safe when he came into the world. He’s still with his parents but now all his siblings have found homes. He’s a baby, but he doesn’t have the same fragility you had- being attacked, clinging on for dear life, struggling with pain and really just making it from day to day. That start was your ultimate undoing. The world was too cruel for you, my sweet Loki.

And what you gave me! You gave me parental duties – not something I thought I’d ever have. Feeds around the clock, calming you down when nightmares took hold, doing everything possible to make you okay. Then losing you. I don’t know what to do. Should I give this little fella home? Should I memorialise our home for you? Oh sweet love, I’m so unsure. Some amazing voices have been speaking into this – recognising that either way, it is okay. I never thought I would be here now, needing to make such a decision. I had such dreams of us growing old together – you were going to be there.

I don’t know what I’ll do. But I know this: I think it’s always going to hurt when I think of you. Your leaving was untimely and cruel. I’m always going to be amazed when I think of you. Your tenacity to hold on and come through such a horrific start will never cease to amaze me. I’m always going to feel guilty when I think of you. I wish I could’ve saved you. I’m always going to be so grateful to God for you. What a beautiful blessing you were to me. You brought so much joy and laughter into our home. You made me feel many things that I never thought I would feel. I’m always going to be in a whirlwind when I think of you. The landslide of emotions almost like your face licks don’t cease. I’m always going to hold a space for you in my heart. Always.

I don’t know what I will do about this little one. But I wanted to tell you what was in my heart.

I love you loads.

Always yours,
Anita
26 February 2023
5:23pm

Seventeen years. That’s how long it’s been since I lost my mum. 7 January 2023 will be seventeen years since she left. It seems like forever, and indeed, it has been. It has been a lifetime without my mother. There have been many good things that have happened to me in these last seventeen years, and there have been some not- so great things that happened too. The one constant has been that in these situations, she has been very clearly missing and I have felt her loss right through all of them.

              It’s interesting to see how many people seem to say they suffer her loss on the same level as I do. It annoys me at some points, and at others, it amuses me. Some of these very people were afraid to come to hospital in case they caught what she had, not that she had anything contagious. Yet, they minimized their time in hospital with her, got annoyed with me when I made sure I would stay and said some very unkind things. I’m glad that I never listened to any of them. I don’t have regrets as a result, and I am so thankful to God. If I’d listened and not stayed by mum, my regret would be unbearable. Some told me off for how her passing left me. They said all sorts. From these, I’ve withdrawn.

I realise that as I’ve grieved mum, many things formed a part of what I grieved. Inappropriate requests made after mum died, things said to me because people couldn’t accept how I’d been brought to my knees, the lack of a space to talk about my mum after she died, etc. were part of a complex, complicated grief. These were insidious, painful, and very oppressive. All these subtle but painful extras added to the struggle I had in going to work and focusing. I was finding it hard to be the lawyer that I needed to be because my memory shut down and I had no energy in me. The whole thing was overwhelming. A counsellor I spoke to about grief helped me look at all these other things as secondary losses, the primary loss being my mum.

It’s interesting to see, when I worked on spelling things out, how much I really lost when mum died.

Seventeen years later, there are many things that remain lost. I never got back my legal career. There is something in me that is so completely changed, that has made this impossible. It’s hard to explain this. There are relationships which may be a little more repaired now, but which still don’t feel safe. I suspect they never will feel safe again. There are large chunks of my memory that are gone. My nuggets of history, football, lyrics and tunes of songs, movies, celebrities, books, etc. are all gone. In 2020, when we had a freak flood, I lost a whole load of things. The loss was sudden and rather broad. As I talk about the flood and recovery, I realise that there are many things I’ll never replace or be able to replace. The experience of the flood and the loss from it made me think about all these things I’ve lost since losing mum. For years, I tried to replace them. It was impossible to listen to every single song from the past or watch every single movie or read every single book – and remember everything as I used to. These are all gone.

My grief for a lot of these things that I lost has mostly diminished now. I’m okay with not being a lawyer. In fact, I am glad for the change in direction, the people I’ve met and things I’ve learnt as a result. Maybe less excited about what it’s meant to the wallet, but I’m not too torn by that these days. I’m reconciled to the fact that some relationships are just no longer the same. All things considered, I feel much better off with lesser or no interactions there. I’m okay not knowing a lot of the things I used to know. I may have picked up some other frivolities in their place. This is progress.

The only thing that remains is the loss of my mum. That hurts the same. That runs deep. That’s not going away. That much, I know.

Now, I am a Christian, as was my mum. If there’s anyone who played a role in my faith, it is her. I believe that she is at peace in Christ. Over these seventeen years, this has been a helpful, consoling thought. It has driven me further into digging in my heels where my faith is concerned. It has helped me feel relief at times when grief hits harder than usual and I find myself in tears. I am grateful to Jesus for this. Yet, it does not stop the pain of her loss. It highlights it. The more I consider how Jesus wept at Lazarus’ grave, the more I am convinced that we are right to weep over the loss of our loved ones, for such loss is so against God’s plan for this world. I am relieved that this loss, whilst it will be something I reckon with for the rest of my life, is still not permanent. There will be a day, when I rise, and it will be the end of this deep, deep pain in my soul. It will be an end to the reminder that is constantly there in my heart, and which feels more pronounced when there are family gatherings, special events, or changes, successes, or challenges in my life. One day.

For now, whilst it might be seventeen years for me without my mum, I want to recognise the loss of her for it is a great loss. Imperfect as she was, she was by God’s sheer grace, the perfect mum for me. I was given a wonderful blessing and I am immensely grateful to God for it. I am very sad that she’s been taken away from me so soon, but I also recognise that God has used her in her absence to teach me how to lean on Him. In that sense, there is a bittersweet feeling within. To my mum, this I say: it still hurts that you’re not here, even though it is now seventeen years that you’re gone. I miss the safety I had with you. I miss the chats, the laughs, and the tears we shared over everything. I miss you checking in on me. I miss your joy in me and in us. I miss the poise you bring to a gathering and the forwardness of thought you had. I miss how you missed your dad – I remember the last conversation you and I had about him twenty-seven years after he died. It was very soon after that you left. I miss your wisdom and maturity. I miss your love. I miss you mum. Seventeen years has gone by, but I miss you.

Christmas is just around the corner. Again. How quickly and effortlessly time passes on by. We’re in the final month of 2022 and it’s on full throttle. This season, the holidays, and festive cheer will all come to an end rather soon from the looks of it. We’re on a roller coaster ride, it feels. Anyone with a crushed or pained spirit will probably find the speed of the roller coaster too much to bear.

As I write this, I think of friends and family who have suffered loss very recently. The loss of a father, mother, spouse, sibling, close family member or friend, can make the roller coaster ride unbearable. I’m also thinking of those who are dealing with different kinds of loss- from relationships ending, which is really like a bereavement too. Some are enduring job or financial losses that are hard to recover from. These are just a few examples. I would include myself yet again in the loss category this year- I’ve lost my precious Loki.

Ask anyone with any kind of grief. Christmas is hard. Unless of course, you do what is popular in this day and age and ‘forget about it’ or ‘don’t think about it.’

I remember when my mum died in 2006. As I write, that’s sixteen years ago. Talk about time zipping past. I wept the days leading up to Christmas. I wept on Christmas Day. I wept and wept. But everything still kept rolling on. I remember wearing a saree that year to keep the conversation away from “how are you?” to an “ooh you look great!” I succeeded there. Truly, the tactic worked. All my weeping was in private. The people who hosted me were kind but no one mentioned my mum, nor did they give me the space to mention her. I forced myself to smile even though my heart was breaking and I think it was then that I formed a massive dislike for the song ‘Smile’ that tells you to smile when your heart is breaking. Yeah, right! Cheese! Everything that I did to participate in Christmas that year, from saying a prayer in church all the way to attending Christmas parties felt like I was only feeding the roller coaster with the energy it needed to keep going. It did not stop.

What’s happened this Christmas? Well before Loki died, I agreed to host certain dos. I’m a planner and I try to get things scheduled as early as I can. This time, I was fully aware that my rheumatoid arthritis is not just something that I can say ‘down boy’ to and go on my merry way. It’s untamed. So I used my planning abilities to write up detailed plans of when I would do what. I must say that I am quite proud of myself- it’s gone to plan. Except that I never planned on Loki dying and a whole new set of emotions on grief coming into play.

I don’t blame God for the timing of it all. I am sad when I watch other pups and doggies on those glorious reels they post on social media. I recognise the sweet things that Loki used to do in many of these. He was undeniably sweet. So full of love. I feel sad for Loki because it feels like his young life was pit against challenges that even a vigilant mama couldn’t fix. I was vigilant. I don’t blame God for this because I believe that the world is broken, and I believe in Christ, there is a permanent fix coming.

What’s different for me this Christmas as I consider my mum, and my most recent loss of Loki? I think it’s that I’ve learnt to step off the roller coaster at points. I don’t mean that I can stop things from happening. I can’t. I’m going through with all the hosting that I agreed to do and am sticking with the plan as it were. But, I’ve made some modifications to the plan. I’m giving myself the space to grieve. This has been so helpful. It is sheer grace that a friend who created the Loki list, which is a prayer list for our fur kids, has been so diligent in asking me how I am. She shares in the grief I face for Loki. She has endured loss too, many times over of loved ones from the human and fur baby categories. They feel like one category to some of us. I am grateful for another friend who isn’t crazy about fur kids. She has been so generous with the time she’s given me to talk about Loki. One more has been praying for me, as I hand over Loki’s stuff to her young dog. She’s going through masses of grief herself, as she copes with significant loss. There are many others. Some are far away and yet feel so near as we talk about Loki through messages or calls. Some who come by, tell me they miss his presence in our home. Some have got me presents that acknowledge Loki. Quite a few of them give me that space and so there are more of these sorts of conversations that are needed at this time.

So, it’s not that the roller coaster ride has stopped. I’ve not figured out how to stop it. I don’t even know where the keys are kept that I may attempt to steal them! No. The roller coaster keeps going on. It’s just that I’ve got some amazing people along with me on the ride. They aren’t afraid to speak of sad things even in a season full of festivities. To me, this is really what relationships should be. Honest. Not ignoring the bad. Full of compassion. Present. With these, it feels that I am stepping off the roller coaster. It truly does.

For this epiphany, I thank Jesus, the one who is always there and who’s willing to do the overtime. As expressive and talkative as I am, he never says ‘enough’ and that is mind-blowing. He has sent me all these amazing people who help me through this. Over and above this, He is always, always there on the ride. He is the most amazing roller coaster companion. He is on the ride in a way that no other person can be. As such, there are moments, when I can’t articulate my feelings but He knows. He gets it. What blessing and grace, over and above the blessing we received that first Christmas. I am grateful.

My warmest Christmas greetings to all of you. My hope and prayer is that each heart truly finds Jesus on this roller coaster ride called life.

It’s exactly a month since my sweet Loki died. A whole month of me barely sleeping because I miss his presence right by me, my little fur ball. He would always try to put his little head on my shoulder, even as I slept. How I miss my boy.

It’s been a horrible month. We’ve been trying hard to come to terms with the quiet. Little things like me picking up my car keys used to be received with such delight. Oh how Loki’s tail would wag. He had such an expectant look on his face whenever I picked up keys or put on shoes. The adoration was always there too. My Loki loved me. Of course, I loved him. His loss has been hard to bear. I had to see an eye specialist, because my eyes swelled up. He told me I was crying too much. The same thing the ENT specialist said when I went to see him with congested sinuses. How do you not cry when you’re sad? I miss Loki.

We made some plans for Christmas before Loki died and I’m going ahead with them to try and keep myself busy. I’m thankful that there have been a wedding luncheon, birthday and wedding anniversary parties to attend. I’m sad to hear of not so pleasant things happening in the lives of family members or friends I hold dear. I’m gutted to hear of things not working out or getting too complicated. It’s painful to hear of loss of loved ones or of loved ones enduring loss too. So painful. I’m happy to hear of good things happening. There are reunions, job promotions and lots of different things going on. So many things, good and bad. Both of these occupy my mind and race to claim my attention, but I cannot shake the fact that my little Loki with his gooey-eyed grin or despondent look (when he wanted more attention than he was receiving) is no more here.

What have I learnt from this? For starters, I’m very in touch with my emotions. This surprises me. Many may say I’m not strong and it no longer bothers me. I know my world’s been turned upside down and I am sad. I feel like my heart’s been ripped out and crushed. I’m learning to pray my emotions. Without these, how insipid our prayers are. I’m learning not to sanitise my prayers. My emotions help me keep it real. I’m not living in some “pretend” or “positive vibes only” reality. My whole humanity – the happy and the sad amongst other aspects, really matter.

I’ve learnt that blessings come in all forms, and whatever the form, you have no control over how long they stay. My mum was a blessing. I’m forever going to be grateful for her. My granny was a blessing too. I recognise that the lovely Patches, my turkey thief was one blessing. These are just a few examples. Of course I should say what a beautiful blessing my baby Loki was. With his fragile body, he helped me understand that my own physical limitations didn’t need to mean that I couldn’t have a ball. He came into my life when I needed to learn this as my RA makes my physical limitations obvious. Loki’s lesson was clear and constant there. He came into my life at a time when I was ready to learn how to enjoy a moment. He was permanently by my side. The lockdowns we had because of COVID weren’t half bad because of my Loki. I have learnt that the characteristics of each blessing can be so vastly different but that you can’t help but love them.

Perhaps the biggest lesson of all that God has shown me through my sweet Loki is that it’s okay to have a heart that’s soft or susceptible to tears. It is okay to grieve – you needn’t hide it. It becomes a part of your make up. It doesn’t have to be avoided or hidden. There was so much beauty in my life with Loki. I never have to hide it or stop cherishing it. I don’t have to be stoic or pretend that everything is alright. Everything isn’t alright. Loki’s gone and I miss him.

Loki’s left a paw print in my heart. When I remember how things weren’t alright for Loki, and when I remember his zest for life and his many expressions, I realise that Loki showed me what it really is like to live the best he could in complete surrender to God. Loki was a better example of creation submitting to his creator than I have been. His brokenness was a part of him. How I loved him for it. So as I go through this season of grief for my lovely Loki, I want to recognise that God sees me and that my pain matters. This Loki lesson is painful but I must thank God for it. It isn’t the lesson I would’ve chosen for myself. It is however, the lesson I got taught. Loki showed me that no matter what my circumstances are, there is much to be grateful for and much to look forward to. I wish his PTSD hadn’t made it impossible for him to live. But I know he lived well for as long as he could despite it all. Oh Loki. What a lesson to have left me with.

I miss Loki very much.

In the past few days, I feel like I have been warped in sadness. Loki’s passing feels like I’ve lost a child. So young he was. Extremely cute. Immeasurably loving. So full of life one minute and gone the next. For Loki, a cruel hand dealt at the point of birth was simply impossible to overcome. It’s painful processing this. It’s shocking because of how it’s all panned out. It’s sad. 

Our home feels empty and terribly quiet. My dad and I feel like something’s missing and indeed, Loki is missing. He was part of our equation. Part of the family. I lost my mum quite awhile ago, and the reality of her loss hits me still, almost every day. It’s a reality that never goes away and now, with Loki gone, I’m sad for my dad and me and all those who shared in Loki whenever they came to our home or through a variety of other means, because I know this is what they will face. One friend who prayed for Loki when she learnt of some of his struggles shared with me that it was Loki who started her praying for our fur babies. We talked about how maybe her prayer list for all these precious pets could now be called the Loki List. We had a small chuckle but fell quiet again. There’s loss there. It’s a new reality. Loki’s gone. 

As I cry for Loki, there has been a great outpouring of love by family and friends and for this, I’m grateful. Messages coming through, not expecting an answer from me, not demanding to know what happened, have been really helpful. There has been so much thoughtfulness and care and I feel blessed in this sense. 

What I have found really annoying are the messages or calls that have come through demanding to know what’s happened to Loki. There’s been no expression of sorrow. There has been no compassion. There’s simply been no feeling. There’s been no moment to consider how I may be feeling at this time and whether it’s something I really need to relive again. Considering I’m struggling to sleep properly since Loki died, I’m going to say that I’m really not obliged to answer these “what happened” questions. 

There’s more. The messages, calls or conversations that have made me snap are the ones which nonchalantly suggest that I get another dog. Yeah. That should do it. Suppress this grief by getting another dog. It makes my blood boil. When someone loses a parent, child, spouse, sibling, family member or friend, do we suggest they go out and get another one? I don’t expect people to fully get how much Loki meant to me and what he was to our home. After all, not everyone gets how our fur kids become a part of our family. Saying that, I still find it so shocking, exasperating and infuriating to have such thoughtless comments come my way right now. Let me assure you, there is pain enough without these ridiculous comments, trying to come to terms with what’s happened. As I write this, I remember something that happened when my mum passed away. The magic cure to my grief at that point was to get married. Lord, have mercy! 

I am so grateful for the friends and family who have shared with me how they’ve dealt with loss of pets. This has been very helpful. I am so grateful for those who’ve messaged just to check in, without demanding any responses. They understand when I say I’m not up to chatting much. I’m super appreciative of those who’ve affirmed difficult decisions made and the terribleness of the entire experience. They’ve given me so much comfort. Am very grateful for those who have helped me express the shock in this horrible event. I’m so grateful for so many of my friends and family – just so kind and thoughtful. They’ve given me a space to grieve. I am grateful. I’m also grateful for time off work right now. It’s hard to focus on anything right now. 

Loss of any kind is hard. We don’t get to determine how hard or how significant the loss is. That is entirely the prerogative of the person suffering that loss. There are things that I don’t expect to cause me so much pain if I lost them. That’s inevitable, just as there are things that will hurt like crazy. No one else defines this- it’s my threshold. 

I am very grateful that I do have a God who knows pain. Jesus certainly felt all manner of pain and He relates to the brokenness of the world. Nothing was supposed to die or deteriorate. I’m fully appreciative of how Jesus wept when he went to Lazarus’ grave (John 11:5). He wept knowing full well that He was about to raise him. Why He wept has always interested me. He wept at the state of brokenness we’re in. The grip of sin over this world is indeed painful and He knew the cost of what He needed to do to redeem us. That really is at the nub of it. However, I don’t think many people then would’ve got it. Definitely not Martha and Mary or others grieving. I’m quite sure that Jesus also wept out of compassion for the pain and suffering humanity endures as a result of sin. This compassionate God helps me in the face of some of these thoughtless, hurtful comments and suggestions. Annoyed as I am over some of these, I’m sure Jesus sees me as I grieve over Loki. I’m sure He gets it- separation is horrible and the Trinity did experience it at a magnitude I’ll never know. I’m sure that the outpouring of love that I’m receiving from some of my family and friends is a result of His grace. For this, at this time, I am grateful and I thank Jesus, my friends and family who are helping me mourn Loki.

There are so many situations, where we feel helpless and simply have no control. Death is the obvious example. I’m writing this just after having buried Loki. Our home feels so empty and quiet and I’m missing him curled up by me as we turn in for the night. It all feels unreal. I’ve been wondering what I could’ve done differently- but I realise, I just didn’t have control. Loki was never mine to fix. He was mine to savour and treasure.

I named my darling boy, Loki, after the god of mischief from The Avengers. In Marvel’s Endgame, Thor watches helplessly while Thanos kills Loki. Whilst I wasn’t battling a Titan, I felt all the force of helplessness. There was nothing I could do to save my boy. This was a similarity I could’ve done without.

Little Loki was a miracle. He never should’ve survived being eaten by crows upon birth. What a tragic entrance into the world and what tenacity (on his part) and grace from God that he should survive. At 18 days, when I first got him, he was helpless, fragile and oh so loveable. It was hard work, feeding him around the clock. I know what it’s like to have interrupted sleep because of feeding, and a whole host of other parental duties that I took on with Loki. With every single minute, I loved him more and more. 

His antics were simply adorable and he well and truly lived up to his name. There was a point when I thought we had a rat upstairs because my clothes from the laundry basket had holes in them. It was quite by accident that I discovered Loki waking up super early, to grab some clothing from the laundry basket, play with it, put it back and quietly return to bed! I didn’t have the heart to tell him off or intervene as he was having a blast. Loki was also an avid gardener! He would happily pull apart any plant I paid attention to. He thought he was being good and helpful. He would come to get me to show me his handiwork. The biggest possible smile full of joy would light up his face as he showed his mama his gardening skills. He was just irresistible!

Anyone who’s been on a Zoom or Teams call with me will also know that Loki loves connecting with the world. He never failed to make an appearance. His trademark was to start jumping on me and being naughty so it looked like a hurricane happening on my end of the call. He timed things to perfection. Once I was presenting with other colleagues, and I decided to sit at the table so that he couldn’t get away with his star performances. Let me say that it didn’t stop him. Loki timed his part so well to start jumping about my ankles and going berserk under the table. It was all I could do to hang on to my countenance. The little fella was certainly a little god of mischief! I do remember thinking I had named him well. 

Loki’s tragic start to life meant that he was scarred with PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder). I worked so hard to try and get a grip of it. Consultations with trainers, vets- reading up and watching everything I could. Yet, it was too deeply rooted. This meant that he could snap at or bite someone without a trigger. The warning signs for these started rather early on. I kept record and kept trying out suggestions from the professionals I was consulting. Nothing worked for Loki. It was not to be. Unfortunately for my darling Loki and me. 

At the end of Loki’s life, he did the one thing that remained his favourite in his short three years. He climbed into my arms as the sedative took over. As I held my baby boy, I felt such sadness watching him trying to cling to me. I was helpless. That moment is going to be such a bittersweet moment forever etched in my memory. I told my darling boy I loved him. I think he knew I did. 

Loki’s life and death reminds me of the brokenness of the world. It also shows me how fruitless all our best efforts can be. We have no control over things. We simply don’t. I’m not sure how others with different world views process this. I know there are answers within the view I ascribe to, where God is the Creator of all things and where Jesus will establish His Kingdom when He returns. The new world is a wonder indeed, from the promises I read and believe in, for there will be no more tears or pain. I don’t know what the plan is for little ones like Loki. I know Jesus died for me – part of humanity. I do know too that as Creator, He’s terribly mindful of all creatures- nothing happens out of His control. Nothing happens in a void. Psalm 50:10-11 says: “[10] For every beast of the forest is mine, the cattle on a thousand hills. [11] I know all the birds of the hills, and all that moves in the field is mine.” This is just one. There are many verses about how God has not forgotten sparrows, whose worth is very little financially (Luke 12:6) or how the birds of the air are fed even when they do not sow or reap (Matthew 6: 26). I also remember how not just humans were saved in the flood, but all manner of creature. So- I am prepared to trust in Jesus for what the outcome will be for Loki, for I know that He is trustworthy. 

Knowing all this doesn’t mean that losing Loki will not hurt. It hurts and I think this hurt will be there for awhile. Loki was only three and so full of life. He loved to put his head on my shoulder wherever we were – whether it was while sitting on my bed or in the car. He kept in close body contact – you’d almost always find him attached to me. He loved giving out licks and nibbling on ears. One friend says that Loki used to nibble his beard! Loki was expressive and loud. There was no mistaking his feelings on things. He had a smile that captured my heart and he had a zest for life, despite his trauma and physical handicap. How I wish that his PTSD had been manageable. How I wish it hadn’t interfered with the quality of his life (and mine). I love Loki very, very much. Something tells me that I’m always going to love and treasure him, for the colour and joy he brought into these recent chapters of my life. For this blessing of Loki, I thank Jesus. 

This is difficult to write. It makes me consider how people see me and the value they attach to me. It opens up old wounds. It rattles me. This is difficult to write.

It is no secret that I suffer from rheumatoid arthritis. Close friends and family will know that I’ve been struggling to find a good rheumatologist. Some of the challenges are that they seem interested only in my insurance. I feel like I’m swatting flies who’re going after a plate of food. The interest is very clearly not in me but how much my insurance coverage is in its entirety and how we can exploit that. They say it in very helpful voices, if that’s of any consolation. It wasn’t for me. One was downright sneaky in some charges he put towards me. He wasn’t my surgeon, not part of the team attending to me, but was summoned for a follow up with me as I was warded and unable to go to him. He decided to stop by a couple of times a day for about a couple of minutes and thought it appropriate to whack full charges for these visits. It never occurred to him that he isn’t in the category of Benedict Cumberbatch, Brad Pitt or such others that I fancy, whose two minute presence may have resulted in a resurrection had I been on my deathbed. I jest, of course! Truth is, I lost trust in him. I’m disappointed in myself for how I barely confronted him about this. My mind was weighing the experience I had with yet another rheumatologist who had put me on steroids for ages and when I complained of terrible weight gain, stopped me cold turkey, caused a crash and told me rather righteously when I went crawling back that he had told me I needed steroids. It was a no-win situation. 

A friend shared an experience of a rheumatologist that I then went to. He seemed like he would be the right fit. The only thing is, she and I had very different experiences. It is how this guy saw me that really brings me to tears. All he saw was an overweight Indian girl before him. I was rather confused at how he labelled all my problems as “because you’re Indian…” and I was stunned by some of the steps he asked me to take. I’m not going to explain those here, because I can’t share it with everyone. I’m actually embarrassed that someone proposed these steps to me. I shared it with some friends. Suffice to say, the course of action suggested was well out of bounds and simply dangerous. In my naïveté, I asked whether his suggestion would make me better. He said it would make me look better. Talk about a sucker punch. 

Familiar as it was, I hadn’t understood the shaky, defensive feeling I had every single time I was before him. Familiar as it was, I hadn’t understood the confusion within because I thought he was a good doctor. He wasn’t being good to me. Familiar as it was, I also hadn’t realised that I was sinking back into not wanting my photograph taken, wearing extra large clothes, having conversations in my head where I dismissed myself because of how I look. Thankfully the descent hasn’t been too bad. I’ve managed to catch myself. The moment I realised that he couldn’t see me- that he had no regard for my humanity because I am of Indian descent and because I am not at a perfect body weight, I cried. Familiar as it was, the hot, tears that were painfully trying to crawl down my face were hard to take. I cried so hard. It was all too familiar. The sucker punch mentioned drew in the realisation. 

I’m tired of it. The young doctor I’m now seeing jumped out of his chair when he heard some of the suggestions made. Friends gape at me when I tell them the actual situation. My dad shook his head in disgust. I haven’t been wrong in my reactions. My hurt is justified. But I’m so sick of it. I’m fed up that externals such as the colour of my skin and how light or heavy I am determines a person’s appreciation of me. 

I miss my mum so much right now. She’d probably have marched into that doctor’s office to give him a rocket. But she’s not here now. Thankfully though, I have many of her words pressed so deeply within my memory. One of the things she taught me so many years ago was that I was made in the image of God and that who I am was not separate from how I looked, and neither how I look or the strengths and demons within me formed who I am completely. I’m reading an excellent book on this right now and my heart swells with pride to see that it was something mum taught me years ago. I guess there is huge progress this time because I’ve not descended into anger with how I look or too much despair about who I am. I have at different points worked so hard on either of these – it’s devastating when you do that. I am relieved this time to see that this recognition of being made in the image of God is actually bringing me a certain measure of comfort and I hope that it will help me derive more comfort as I process the acceptance I have in Christ. 

The hurt is real. But the one big change this time is, I want to respond well. I don’t want to respond with just anger festering in me. Initially I caught myself calling the doctor all sorts of names. I remember shooting down all the bullies who tormented me in my past. Mum told me then, that they too were image bearers of the same God we worshipped- even if they weren’t behaving like it. This is the hard part. I’m determined not to brutalise the doctor verbally to the point that I forget that he is an image bearer. I’m hoping that learning to take the right steps -which may or may not involve a complaint, will help me forgive him. I’m not so keen on turning the other cheek- but if this is what it takes for me to be a better image bearer, then processing it is worthwhile. It feels like I’m fighting for my humanity. The doctor didn’t see my humanity. He was incapable of it because of his prejudices. I shouldn’t lose my humanity in how I battle this wrong. I say now that following Jesus is hard work! I need grace. 

This is hard to write. I’m insecure as I write this because I know full well that someone can say “ahh- but that doctor was right about you.” If it came from someone else, it would hurt. It would hurt like crazy. Yet- I think there has been a certain amount of healing within me from past experiences of prejudice, and I think a lot of it is because I have had Jesus and the space to speak about it. I have had so much support come my way especially through my mum and now from some wonderful friends. 

I write because I hope that if ever anyone I know faces hurt because of inexplicable prejudices, there is hope beyond this pain. This stain, scar, blot, whatever we want to call it, isn’t the end of things. We aren’t just accidental beings that have come into existence. If we were, there shouldn’t be a problem what anyone says. It shouldn’t matter. We aren’t just creatures who can take the high ground, like martyrs who march on stoically. Crikey! No. We have feelings and these matter. We matter. There is more to who we are: we aren’t just aesthetic beings, neither are we just moral ones. We are shaped by both these aspects of our being. 

As I ponder on this, I recognise that Jesus was also human. Creator, yet, begotten. He identified as human. I’m gobsmacked by that thought. Why would He do that? Why give up glory? Why exchange it for something like our humanity, which has demonstrated beyond doubt its fragility? He bore the image of God far better than I or any of us can. Yet, He wasn’t recognised for who He was. He endured hell for us on that cross. That magnificent, inexplicable, and extremely unbelievable act of grace shows me that because of Him, when someone else dismisses or misses my humanity, as painful as it is, is not the be all and end all. His grace shows me that my response in the face of this, can mirror perhaps a smidgen of His response to those who failed to see His Lordship in His humanity. He didn’t deal with us as we deserved. He showed masses of grace. So angry, sad and disappointed as I am that I am facing this, I will be mindful of this doctor being an image bearer and be considerate in how I respond to his dismissal of me. 

I’m also taking steps to ensure that my feelings are properly processed and I will give myself the time I need to heal from this. For this, I hope and pray that God gives me the strength I need. In the meantime, I will be saying a prayer for me and the many people out there who face all sorts of prejudice that is so very destructive.

Today, my father turned 89. That’s quite a blessing, I think, because there’s not one thing that we can do to add or subtract to our lives. I’d been wondering what to do- how to celebrate. It was something that I pondered on for quite a bit.

These days, I recognise that it’s no longer possible for me to cook for large crowds. It’s no longer possible for me to cook for any sort of crowd. It’s an achievement when I do it for dad and me. So for this lunch party, whilst it wasn’t the most complicated sort of do, wasn’t easy for me. Thankfully, I had options! I ordered food from a much trusted food business run by friends. Boy! Did they deliver! The food was magnificent. I didn’t for a second doubt the quality of what I’d get, but I guess I doubted my ability to organise things when the family arrived. It is hard for me to carry dishes, serve food, etc. This is yet another layer of ability that my illness has taken away from me. But there were blessings all around. 

A cousin helped me carry tables and chairs. I couldn’t have done this. Our helper made herself available for every single thing I needed in the days leading up to today. My aunt refused to let me wash the table cloths she had lent me for the tables I’d borrowed from her, and she made and brought some incredibly yummy desserts. Another aunt and uncle brought heaps of a popular local food, and I must mention that my aunt helped me with buying flowers and a few things I needed. Another cousin organised drinks, while his power-house wife and yet another cousin helped organise all the food to be put out on the tables. In the end, I was an able host, because I was enabled. 

My heart is so full as I sit and ponder on this. In fact, I’m dreadfully missing my mother right now. My cousins and the rest of the family may think their contributions were small. They haven’t a clue how big a deal they are to me because I’m no longer that able! It has been such a struggle dealing with the loss of ability in hosting. Gone are the days when I would spend an entire two weeks buying and prepping bits and bobs that could be frozen, etc. just for one party. Now – I have to look for food options, maybe even dessert and whatnots. I hadn’t realised how stressed I was about even being able to put the food out. My mum would get it. She suffered from the same chronic illness. She would so get its debilitating nature. The push I give myself is fairly big – on most days, I have to counter fatigue, by not giving in, which is not a pleasant experience. It’s hard to explain how it feels when your whole body works against you – a strange sort of inertia that holds you back, without ever setting you free. Yet – today, my heart is full.

Yes, my heart is full because my dad’s 89th birthday had us surrounded by a set of blessings in the form of my family. We’ve shared a history: some of it hasn’t been great, some of it has been sad, some full of hope and victory and on days such as today – so full of love, kindness, joy and unity. So I do thank my God. I thank Him for this blessing that He granted us today. I thank Him for the grace that surrounded not just dad, but me – in the form of my family, for all the strength that He gave me through them, to fill our home with the noise of laughter and chatter. 

One day, I hope my family realise how they enabled me today, to do what I wanted to do. Today, I recognise that it was through the grace of God that I was granted this. How He moves mountains! Today, I can say that despite this debilitating illness, I can be thankful and that I can count it as joy that I have been met with the trial of this illness, for today, it has produced an even greater desire within me to be faithful  to Jesus. Soli Deo Gloria!