Dating : Grace (or, put better, Charis)

Life is all about rhythms and circles and things moving in and things moving out. I firmly believe there is indeed a time for everything under the sun, a pendulum of life that swings back and forth, hypnotically transfixing us in the closed-doors and opened-windows moments. I want to tell the story of the incredible companion I had in my Charis. She left us on August 12, 2018 after a long life filled with love, joy, cuddling, and, well, grace. The rhythms of life have brought about new family, new friends, new individuals, and even a renewed commitment to the deepest relationship in my life. I need to tell the beautiful story of the love I shared with the sweet little soul inside of a black and white dog that I picked up at the pound in March of 2003. I believe that Charis was placed in my life to hold space, with grace, until I could become the kind of person that I wanted and needed to be, the kind of person whose eyes are open, heart is full, and hands are reached out to receive blessings and love anew.

The first way to encapsulate Charis is to share an anecdote that has nothing immediately to do with Charis.

I was Christmas shopping once at a mall in Philly. I remember being frustrated by something — in this moment I’m not entirely sure of the details, but I was perturbed. And I do know that it had to be something insignificant, something passing. I just remember sitting on a stone bench, in my feelings about whatever-it-was when I caught a glimpse of a shadow coming toward me. It wasn’t threatening, but it was encompassing. Whoever this was had just thrown themselves onto me and wrapped me in an embrace. I looked over and realized that a young man with Down’s Syndrome was holding me, so I held him back. He had apparently run away from his family for a moment to share some kindness with me. Maybe it was my face, maybe it was random — but that moment has stuck with me as a crystalline portrayal of the essence of grace. His head just rested on my shoulder and he wouldn’t move nor let go. His parents finally realized where he was and gently pulled him off, expressing their apologies and explaining how affectionate he was. He actually never even made direct eye contact with me — he just removed his head and looked down at the floor then turned around and went right back to what he was doing before.

That’s grace.

A granting, an offering of space to someone to just be, to just exist, as they are, not as they were or could or would or should be.

This story begins in 2003. I had just celebrated my 24th birthday. I was most certainly just then starting to descend into a simultaneous triple-threat of mild depression, identity crisis, and existential aimlessness, although I didn’t know it at the time. I just knew that I wasn’t “happy,” the all-encompassing cultural and societal, and, yes, even political/patriotic label that I am to pursue. I was lonely, for one. I had a job where I was surrounded by people and I had a few friendships of substance, but because of the internal wrestling happening in each and every moment, I spent most of my days feeling isolated. In retrospect, this had more to do with trying to fit a circle into a square, in more ways than one. But without the too-late fortitude of hindsight, I continued to outwardly exude a semblance of control while internally floundering. It would be many more moments, days, months, and years, even, before I started to really walk into the individual that I was probably meant to be, or, at least the best version of myself. This was simply the beginning of a long journey through the tunnel coursing under the grounds of false certainty.

Anyway, a friend suggested that I take a ride out to the Rockingham County SPCA. The idea was completely ‘other’ to me. I wasn’t raised in a house of pets. In fact, up to this point, I had only had a few fish that I had succeeded in killing, though not intentionally. I thought it was a different thing to go and do with a day, an interesting way to spend some time. And the only sights and sounds I had ever had of a pound were courtesy of Sarah Maclachlan’s vocal strains “in the arms of the angel, fly away” while showing the absolute most pitiful pictures of dogs and cats, sort of like the “feed the children” commercials that were such a ubiquitous part of my childhood and adolescence. I’ve not thought about this until now, but both of those commercials sort of feed the savior complex that many of us have. So maybe I went out to the SPCA that day thinking that I could save something.

And it didn’t even really seem as if I had a choice in the matter. I fervently disagree with any sort of dogma that promotes predestination, in salvation or otherwise, but in this one moment of my life, I feel that I was chosen. I do not remember much about being there that day. Only one very burnt-in-the-amber-of-my-memory moment. One of the caged stalls had a pack of three puppies, about 3–4 months old. They were all asleep, completely piled on top of one another, all different colors. There was a chocolate brown, a grey, and a black/white one. I knelt down and went to pick up the chocolate puppy trying to get him to wake up and as I was holding him in front of my face, I felt two little paws on my right leg. I looked down and there was the black/white puppy, staring into my face with the kindest, most gentle eyes I had ever seen. I placed the little chocolate guy back down on the ground and placed my hands on this little soul for the first time. I picked her up and held her close to my chest. That was it. That was all it took.

A very good friend was willing to use her address as my home so I could adopt the pup as I was in a property that didn’t allow pets. It didn’t matter to me, at all, that I was lying or could possibly get caught. I had lived in that particular property for months and realized it was one of hundreds that my landlord owned and was managed by a tertiary company, so I wasn’t too worried that we would ever even see anyone that would enforce this. Besides, I honestly felt as if she had chosen me, so if that meant I had to move then I most likely would have done so. I remember the woman working the desk at the shelter remarked on how sweet this pup was, that she was full of kindness and care. I thought that was remarkable given that she was only 3.5 months old. I paid the fee, signed the paperwork, agreed to spay her, and walked out with a very unexpected new presence in my life. A presence that would come to fill the moments, live out the ordinary, transform time from just mere chronology to love-imbued seconds. Every single minute I would spend with this soul would not only deepen my connection to her, it would also pull me on a long journey of coming to know, understand, and accept myself the way she did.

With grace.

I named her Charis, the Greek word for grace, kindness, life. I was in the ministry, so names and principles such as this were at the forefront of my thinking, and if I had to do it again, I would name her the same. Even more redundant, her full name ended up as Charis Grace Pennington.

The SPCA didn’t know much about Charis’ origin story. The pack of pups were dropped off together as siblings, a group of 3. Having been between 3 and 4 months old, there was some sort of an early beginning. I would come to learn her fears and things that caused her anxiety. I assume she lived through some sort of hardship. For instance, there was not going to be another thunderstorm that I would ever enjoy. I wouldn’t be able to leave her alone and unattended in (what should have been) a mostly secure patio (more on that later). I would never be able to leave the house again and feel complete freedom, but then again, I also would not know loneliness any longer. This new bundle of 12 pounds in my arms was a welcome end to the ability to go anywhere and do anything at any time — I had something, someone expecting me to come home and wanting to see me and share moments with me.

12 pounds.

12 pounds, or so, of a new promise. One hour spent of friendship and mutual curiosity.

We went to Wal-Mart so I could buy the necessary items. Food, a water bowl, toys (including a stuffed pig named “booda”), treats, and a small crate. I literally had no idea what I was doing. I had no idea how to train her, how to get her to do tricks, how to walk her on a leash. I figured that we would learn it together. Looking back now, I don’t even remember teaching her anything. I just remember it all being ridiculously easy. She was extremely intelligent, gentle, with a streak (or four)of mischievousness.

That first day I tried to put her behind a baby gate while I did a couple of things around the house. Five minutes later I hear a crash and I look over to where she is. Charis is standing on the baby gate and surfing it like a board on water. Somehow she succeeded in prying one corner away from the wall so it was teetering. She just balanced on it staring at me as if to say “Why the hell did you put me behind this thing anyway? I can figure out how to get out.” I will never forget that look in her eyes. It was both a quiet defiance and a bit of shame. It’s the same look she had when she got her neck stuck in the recycling bag full of things to chew and lick clean. When she couldn’t pry herself loose she climbed the stairs with the bag hanging from her neck. She fluctuated between an air of quiet defiance if she didn’t care about what she had done (a mischievous glint in her eye) or ears tucked back flat to her head, eyes half closed in what seemed like the best doggy “I’m sorry, mama” that she could give.

I saw this particular look in full-force for the first time after she escaped from my screened-in porch area of my next apartment, above a diesel crane warehouse. (She would, by the way, move a grand total of 10 times with me throughout her life.) The area was as large as a room. The weather was really nice. And the screens were above five or six feet in the air with no furniture to climb on to access. Seemed like a safe bet that she could lounge in the sun and be safe. I drive into town, run a few errands, and climb the stairs to the porch door when I see tattered screen remnants blowing back and forth with the wind. Charis is nowhere to be found. I literally thought someone had whipped the breath clear out of my chest. After a very, very long day spent calling every place that might have her, printing “Lost Dog” signs with her puppy picture, walking miles on miles in cow fields and pastures, one last ditch effort to find her was put forth around midnight. I start driving up the long dirt road that led to the apartment and what do I see, lounging on the ground at the feet of the neighbor woman, like a queen? Charis Grace. She ran to the closest house she could find, which was at least 100 yards away. Apparently she presented herself as a princess, so much so that they named her “Priscilla.” She followed the family around all day, they took her to a park, they bought her toys and treats and just knew that someone must already own her and planned to take her to the SPCA (the same one from which she rescued me) the following day. I then understood how my mom felt the moment she saw me after they thought I ran away but I was really just hiding behind a chair in the living room because they wouldn’t get me the kind of ice cream I wanted from Dairy Queen — she hugged me in joy then looked like she was going to kill me. I wanted to hug the life out of Charis and I also wanted to make sure she knew what all she had put me through that day. I remember that she wouldn’t look me directly in the eye, just laid her head down on the couch as if she had found some peace. I picked up her paw and saw that she had rubbed them raw and bloodied from the panic that ensued upon being left alone. She tore the screens so violently that she ripped open her own feet. This wouldn’t be the last time she let me know how much she hated being left alone.

On a lighter note, one time a friend kept her for the day while I was at a conference and tied her on a stake in the backyard with a rather sturdy leash while she went to plant flowers in the front yard. Charis appeared in the front yard 3 minutes later with the chewed remnants of what was left of the leash.

So, she was a bit of a Houdini. It wasn’t so much that she wanted to escape, she just wanted to be WITH you, just wanted her little soul to connect. (Or at least that’s what I’ve anthropomorphized.)

That first year that we spent together in 2003 was one of, if not the, hardest years of my life. Two months after her adoption, at the end of May, I was in a severe car accident. I was thrown from the front seat to the back and broke my jaw, ankle, and bashed the side of my head on the head rest. I had a concussion, memory issues, problems focusing, etc. Honestly, I don’t remember very much of the month of May/June of that year, just that my mom stayed with me and that Charis was by my side on the couch, sleeping and just being with me. I think that quite a bit of our bonding occurred during this very time.

My parents had come to visit a few times that year, and my dad just loved Charis. Somehow I talked my mom into keeping her for a week when I went to National Conference for my job. Charis did what she did best — she charmed them both and laid all day long with my dad, watching football and Westerns, then laid with my mom at night while she was binge-watching “24.” She was just always a presence.

25 pounds, or so, of presence. Six months of friendship and companionship.

2003 would not get any easier. It wasn’t until late fall that I started to feel back to “normal” from the accident. I remember that I had just returned home from a meeting and was eating a late dinner. My phone rang and it was my Mom — my Dad had to be rushed to the emergency room for a stroke. He had had multiple mini-strokes in the years prior, but this one seemed to be worse. By the time I was able to arrange time away from work, pack, and get my shit together, he was only being kept alive on life support. My mom and brother and I decided together to have his organs and tissue donated. He was in such bad health that only his corneas were able to be used. I remember having to leave little Charis in the car while I was at the hospital in Charleston. And, again, she did what she does. She simply waited, greeting me with such kind happiness. She, of course, had no idea what was happening, no idea how my world was turning upside down with every passing day. By coming with me to WV for my dad’s funeral, Charis was able to meet the rest of my family and many of my good friends. This was the beginning of her integration into not only my heart and life but also into my past.

Grief is a bitch. It’s a messy process that must be reckoned with. At only 23, I was catapulted into it in a harsh and abrupt way. When I arrived at the hospital, my dad was already completely unconscious. It was one of the hardest things I had ever had to do to walk in the room and say goodbye. My dad would always try to hold my hand throughout my entire life. I had memorized the way his skin felt, his firm grip. He had workman’s hands from working a blue-collar car mechanic job. So when I went in to the room to tell him goodbye, I took his hand in mine and there was no grip, no movement. That moment is embedded deep within as a marker of a certain level of sadness and emptiness to which I compare many other life events to gain perspective. It was a welcome kind of comfort to know that dog was waiting in the car in the parking garage. The thing about a dog is that even though they may sense that something is off, that something is wrong, they still act in a such a way that there is a sense of normalcy granted. There was relief in knowing that Charis was still going to need to eat, be walked, given treats, etc. It imbued the unbearable with the ordinary.

But she was no ordinary dog, especially when it came to being in tune with my emotions or the emotions of whoever was in the room. In fact, my favorite story of Charis didn’t even involve me. At one point during the first few years I had her, my good and sweet friend Jan was pup-sitting for me. I had stayed at her house every summer during my adolescence and young adulthood and had always loved her three dogs. I was happy for Charis to be able to meet them. While she was there, one of them passed away — big “Bear.” Charis was there for the stretch of days when Bear had to be rushed to the vet and put to sleep. Jan was sitting in a rocking chair and crying quietly when Charis slowly walked over, crawled up into her lap and wrapped her head around Jan’s neck and literally held her. This was my sweet Charis.

By this point, Charis and I had spent about a year together. It would come to be that we would have one more year in Virginia before a change — I had made the decision, even if at first it was only known to myself, to fill out an application to Princeton Seminary. I had no reason in the world to believe that I would be admitted, let alone given the opportunity to earn two degrees there. I just wanted out of where I was — at times it felt that my life depended on it. The accident and my dad passing away were two clear calls, at least to me, that something had to give. I sent in the application — I remember filling it out on the sofa right in that dingy apartment over top of the diesel crane warehouse — and am still in shock, years later, that I was accepted to the Dual Degree program. Charis and I would be spending the next few years in New Jersey. Before the fad of emotional support dogs, that is exactly what Charis had become.

30 pounds, or so, of support. Two years of friendship and emotional buttressing.

I would spend the next five years of our lives in New Jersey, living in between of Trenton and Princeton. The beginning of my transition from being in an environment where I was expected to have all of the answers and wisdom to a place where I was just another small fish was a bumpy one. I didn’t take the time to visit the campus, the town, or any housing. In retrospect I see what a poor decision that was, but this is a sliver of a window into the confidence that I had — not only confidence in myself (the foolish kind you have in your early 20’s) but confidence in this being the next step for me — how hard could it be? Turns out, it was pretty hard. I grew to love New Jersey, but damn if it’s not another planet when you’ve grown up in West-by-God Virginia, attended undergrad in an Amish hamlet in Ohio, then started your life as an adult in corn and pig fields outside of Harrisonburg, VA. NJ was a shock to my system. The traffic — hellacious. The human interactions — nonexistent. And this doesn’t even cover what was awaiting me in the classes. After going through the extremely uncomfortable evening of meeting my classmates and program cohort, I went to my first class on a Wednesday morning in mid-September. It was Old Testament 101 with Prof. Sakenfeld and Prof. Lapsley. I still remember where I sat in Stuart Hall 206 (if memory serves me, that was the lecture hall) — always in the very back row on the left side, close to a window. One of the first statements made in the very first lecture I would hear refuted that Moses actually wrote the first five books of the Old Testament — the immediate problem with this being that I was taught that very thing, then in turn taught it myself. I would characterize this as a rug being pulled out from under me, but it’s more akin to being absorbed into a black hole of dense energy. I was in a place I had never been — deep uncertainty, truly foreign territory (theologically speaking). I wanted to leave — I even met with my mentor and voiced my fears and insecurities, that I felt as if I had made a terrible mistake. That isn’t a comfortable place to be; right or wrong, my way of thinking was all I had ever known. I was so insulated in that world that I really didn’t know there was another paradigm, another ontological approach. The sage advice I was given in that panicked meeting seeking to flee these circumstances was to hold on until March of the following year and if, by then, I still felt this sense of panic, we would pursue the steps to get me out.

And this is a sacred moment of grace itself — patience and love in the midst of my youthful and inexperienced panic. These swirling emotions were emerging from the misplaced confidence of a girl in her 20’s who had always succeeded at most anything put in front of her. I seemingly was born (nature) with an innate and strong sense of motivation and drive to succeed and this was nursed in me (nurture) by my Mom who, as a school teacher, assisted me in every quiz, test, paper, etc. As an athlete, I simply decided that I wasn’t going to lose, not without putting my damn body on the line. This sort of attitude also spilled over into my religious and theological self — do or die, black or white, wrong or right. When that mindset, while leading to success in other areas, came to influence areas of faith, I was fairly insufferable. To those “in the fold,” I was “on fire” and was looked to as a leader. All of this gave me a false sense of confidence that I knew exactly, well, everything. This was the ethos that I brought into Princeton and Princeton, rightly so, punched me in the face. It was simply the best thing that could have ever happened to me. And as it turns out, my mentor was correct. By the time that March had come around, I had enrolled in a class with Dr. Ellen Charry, a brilliant firebrand of a woman who somehow retained her own sense of “do or die” thinking but channeled it in a way that granted her a prophetic voice that penetrated me, a voice that was not concerned with wrong/right dichotomy but what exactly should the Church be thinking, speaking, or doing? I was entirely out of my depth in taking her 400-level class on “Theology & Film” where we specifically explored Ecclesiastes in relation to modern cinema, but her questions energized and fascinated my spirit; her discussions of how the Church dealt with human grief soothed my hurting soul. I found this refreshing, a necessary point of grace that assisted me to calm my spirit that was troubled, to settle my mind and embrace this journey, however uncertain and fearful and out of control I was feeling. By this point, I had fully embraced this place and what it was doing to me; grace was holding me with unseen force. I remember there was a ride at Kings Dominion where you put your back up against a wall and the ride began to move in furious circles until you were moving so fast that the floor dropped out — the force literally pinned you in place. This is grace. Grace doesn’t alleviate the force or motion. It just holds you securely until the madness stops.

I fully invested in my time at Princeton, soaking in lectures, readings, discussions, classes, and as much of the atmosphere as I could. Charis sat and slept while I read copious amounts of information, theology, philosophy, etc., and laid on the couch next to me while I typed away my fingers writing paper after paper. Grad school is an immense privilege, one that I will never take lightly or for granted. It’s a stressful experience — it’s a daily battle to not fall into a mode of comparison while pursuing a level of perfection, and it’s nice to come home to a being that saw me as enough, more than enough. Charis was happy to just have me, to just be with me. I didn’t have to perform, pose, write beautiful prose, analyze arguments and deconstruct their weaknesses. I just had to keep feeding her, loving her, and losing myself in time with her. Lots of cuddles were had on that couch in yet another dingy apartment, this time in Lawrenceville.

35 pounds, or so, of unconditional acceptance. Four years of friendship and consistent presence.

It was also during my time at Princeton that Tina came into mine and Charis’ life. I still remember every part of her first visit to NJ. It was the first time she had met Charis and spent any sort of time with her. We had connected earlier that summer at church camp. I remember the moment she stood out to me — it was a simple moment. She was talking about how much she loved Anderson Cooper, and she whipped around with a smirk and a smile and evaded my eyes, I think on purpose, and waltzed back to her bunk. I was hooked, never would be the same again after that small moment. It started with a morning spent sitting in the main building hours before anyone else was awake, just talking. Having someone just listen. In a way, she was like a human Charis. After a long period of emailing, Tina finally came to visit. I just remember wanting to impress her around every turn and showing off Charis was no exception. I wanted her to love her and see how great of a dog she was — and Charis needed no help from me in showing herself off. She immediately took to Tina. I have pictures of Tina reading a book on the same couch where I penned my many papers, Charis laying in her lap with her head on her chest. On a trip to the Crisis Ministry where I interned, Tina told me that she saw Charis as “gentle personified.” Mission accomplished. I had told Charis she needed to do anything she could to help this woman be charmed by us, and of course she met the challenge.

39 pounds, or so, of charm. Five years of friendship spread to another human who would become one with the two of us.

My last two years in NJ were filled with my Americorps Membership and my final year thesis. The two years flew by at record speed. Doesn’t it always seem that when you finally get the hang of a place and start to feel really comfortable that it’s time to move on? The spirit of Princeton had embedded itself within me. I no longer believed things to be constrained and defined but wide open and ambiguous. And I found my soul that much more settled within this framework. Looking back from this vantage point, this is also grace — this force that holds and apprehends you while you flail about trying to figure things out. As my relationship with Tina developed, I would find myself moving back to the same city where I was before Princeton, this time with a different framework of being. Charis, of course, would follow yet again, because grace follows us throughout the whimsical nature of life.

To watch Charis graft herself into the family was truly a beautiful thing for me. She very sweetly sunk her cute claws into the kids’ hearts. Levi and Max essentially grew up with her as their dog. I always admired the way that Tina taught her children to treat animals with respect, attention, and love. Eventually the cats learned to tolerate her and she learned how to defer to their dominance over the house. Even while Sam was away at school, when she came home Charis would be ready and waiting for some of her attention. I never had any doubt that she was loved and in turn she met that love with even more of her own. She would pounce on us when we returned home, even if we had only gone away for 10 minutes. She would follow us around the house, to each and every room, just in case any of us might need her. Each night, laying in bed, I found so much comfort in touching her little body with my feet.

42 lbs, or so, of constant companionship. Eight years of friendship that began to spread outward to others that became a part of our lives.

In 2012, frustrated by my lack of direction on “what-comes-next”, especially how frustratingly difficult it would be to try to follow something as prestigious as Princeton, I made a seemingly aimless decision to search for jobs on Craigslist in Charlottesville. Tina and I had fallen in love with the vibe of the Downtown Mall on the many visits that we made during the first few years of our relationship. After not seeing anything of substance in the categories in which I was actually qualified, my eyes settled on the “Food/Beverage/Hospitality” category. I clicked on it, started scrolling through the endless job postings, thinking a job in the food industry would certainly be a different experience but one that I was not even remotely qualified to pursue. But doesn’t grace sometimes just invade a moment and help you do something that the world-at-large has convinced you is a terrible and wasteful idea?

So let’s just say that grace led me a place called The Whiskey Jar.

I could go into all of the curves of this story, but let’s suffice it to say that I answered the ad, brought my resume (a peanut butter pie), “interviewed” twice (where the chef and other guys watched me make biscuits, lemon chess pie and pecan pie), felt absolutely possessed by kinetic energy while Muse was wailing “WE WILL BE VICTORIOUS” at full volume in the background, was told by the guy who ended up hiring me that he was the biggest asshole I would ever meet (and actually, he wasn’t at all, we are still good friends to this day), was given a PBR to celebrate my hiring, told to come back two or three times per week to bake, given full reign over my dessert menu, asked to do something great with peaches because USA Today and the Travel Channel were coming, made cobbler (this is sort of parallel to making lemonade out of life’s lemons, except different), continued to grow in my style of rustic and honest baking, was able to bake a collaborative dessert for the Southern Foodways Alliance conference, formed relationships with my restaurant family, and made Charlottesville my home.

My first two years in Charlottesville, Charis and I were here alone. We had made the move prior to Tina and the kids settling in Crozet. Those two years that I had with her were special, enveloped in many, many moments spent with just the two of us. I was working two jobs for a total of 13–14 hours per day, so life consisted of waking up, our morning walks, the first job, our afternoon walks, the second job, our evening walks, and cuddles at night. I did discover how absolutely useless Charis was in defending me from the evil and terrible mouse that took over my first Charlottesville apartment, a run-down half of a basement. Early on after our move, I was spending time in Harrisonburg with the family over the weekends. Charis was with me part of the time and with Tina and the kids as much as possible. I kept noticing that every time I put out food for her, it was seemingly disappearing, even when she was not present to have eaten it. One night, she was sleeping in the bedroom toward the back of the apartment. I was in the bathroom, and I heard something/someone eating her food. I slowly crept into the bedroom to make sure she was still in there, and to my horror, she was — meaning that something that was NOT Charis was eating in the kitchen. A caveat — my mother was terrified of mice when I was a child. I have distinct memories of her jumping on top of tables in a pure adrenaline response to seeing one run across the kitchen. Also, one time at church camp when I was 5, she woke me up to sleep in the church bus because there were mice in the cabin eating our snacks. Needless to say this heavily influenced my irrational and illogical response to these creatures. So as I moved toward the kitchen, flicking the light on, I see a huge mouse scurrying, more like galloping, to hide behind the fridge. I holed myself up on the bedroom doing my best to block every point of entry and stayed awake all night because I couldn’t bear the thought of it getting onto the bed. Charis just slept and was absolutely no help in my despair. Thinking that a cat could help, I catnapped Chai, Charis’ best friend, to live with us. Chai was also no help. (It turns out the mouse was pregnant and birthed several babies into my apartment. Charis and I spent more than one night sleeping in my car until this was resolved). Chai was an indoor/outdoor cat, raised by a neighbor of ours who was moving to California and asked us if we’d like to adopt him. He’s always been more of a dog than a cat, and he and Charis formed the sweetest friendship. They walked together, ate together, cuddled and slept together. I spent many hours with the two of them all huddled up in my bed. Charis was the single most loving being I had ever had the privilege of knowing, even if she was absolutely terrible at understanding the serious threat the mouse was to her Mama.

40 pounds, or so, of following me on every adventure. Ten years of friendship and always being excited to see me, even if I only left for one minute, but failing to rescue me from the horrible rodents.

By 2013, Tina had relocated to Crozet and I ended the lease on my Downtown apartment, moving us back in with the family. Life was fairly simple. I continued my work at The Whiskey Jar and Tina commuted to Harrisonburg to continue her work in insurance. By this point I had expanded my role at the Jar to include expediting dinner service a few nights a week and managing the daily money, payroll, and tip payouts. For the most part, I thoroughly enjoyed my job and found great meaning in it. I had connected with both back of house and front of house staff, fostering friendships and relationships outside of the kitchen. In short, life was a collection of days that were filled with supportive friends, growing as a family, dogs walks and long, lazy Sundays. Charis had adapted to family life years before this point and this is what she loved best. She was born desiring to be a part of a family unit, the dog in all of our lives. Even the cats loved her, represented by the bulk of photos on my phone of them snuggling, walking outside together, and her cleaning their ears and head (well, except for Chevy, whose tortured soul just hates the world in general). Tina and I still remark on her gift of companionship, with truly anyone and everyone around her.

I couldn’t have known that on the horizon was what would turn out to be a life-altering decision coming our way in late 2014. In one of those “so-anecdotal-it-doesn’t-even-seem-real” moments, a realtor mentioned to Will, the owner of The Whiskey Jar, that she had a property coming open right off the Downtown Mall and wouldn’t it be nice if someone would finally open up a pie shop in Charlottesville? This is the sort of thing that happens in a movie, I suppose — a rom-com, perhaps? It turns out that owning a pie shop with your partner is anything but comedic. I would say it’s more of a rom-dram. And writing about the details of that adventure is certainly another thing altogether. Suffice it to say that we had spent our days away from our home and one another more than we would have liked — a necessity of small business ownership and management. I would like to believe that this made our times together even more full. We tried to milk out of every single day as much as we possibly could, but still, the realization that we were ever-approaching the end was poignant. We are born with the hourglass already turned over. The moment we realize the nature of time and it’s passage, we have had so much of it slip through any grasp. It is an illusion that we can hold onto time, yet we try.

Our first baking kitchen was located on Dale Avenue, right behind Old Dominion Animal Hospital. Seeing as how we hadn’t yet found a vet in Charlottesville, I took advantage of the proximity and there I discovered a core group of beautiful ladies who would come to love me, my partner, and Charis Grace. Soon after her first appointment, Charis was diagnosed with kidney disease. There was an immediate adjustment in her food and the need to monitor her on a semi-regular basis. Every question I had, every moment of anxiety, every need for her special diet and medication, these people were always there with kindness and love. I almost felt as if we were reaping the lifetime of kindness and grace that Charis had offered to so many others during her years — she now had a team of people who not only saw and understood our bond but fostered it and poured out love and support.

Here is a great example, and one which led me, once again, to simultaneously be filled with gratitude that she was ok and anger at what she had done (reminiscent of her scratching out the screened-in porch and running away to become “Priscilla” for a day). Before I go into detail here, suffice it to say that Charis was always extremely food-motivated, sort of like her Mama. She also had extreme and severe thunderstorm phobia for which we would give her Xanax, but this always had the side effect of an increased (and, I would add, crazed) appetite. Once she jumped up on top of the dining room table and ate an entire Little Caesar’s Hot-n-Ready pepperoni pizza before any of us could even think of stopping her. She would get into the trash, resulting in us putting the can in a broom closet. She would look for plates, bowls, cups, anything at all that could possibly have food or food residue on it. So, on this particular day, she got ahold of a Gearhart’s Dark Chocolate Brownie. If you’ve never had one of these treasures, first of all, they are sliced large and are baked on the thick side. The chocolate is very dark and dense. Apparently when dogs consume anything with caffeine, it takes hours before any effects are seen. These effects started to come to the fore while we were watching Jordan Peele’s “Get Out,” an unsettling film to consume on a good day but especially so when you have a dog that is pacing, panting, having to go outside every ten minutes to pee, etc. The following morning we took her to ODAH and our lovely vet, Allison. I remember how much I trusted this woman to always do right by us. She was proactive in her care and approach, exactly the kind of medical attention that means the most to me. I’ll never forget how she just took her and so matter-of-factly handled the situation. They flushed out her system and observed her for the rest of the day. We had dodged a bullet, again. Besides this little occurrence, she had handled the kidney disease pretty well. The diet had a wonderful effect on her values, some of them even reversing themselves. I remember Allison, after a particularly positive set of values came back from the lab, remarking that Charis was going to live forever, or at least longer than any of the rest of us. She seemed to be a medical anomaly. Every little medical hump, she always found a way to clear it.

37 pounds, or so, of food-loving, thunderstorm-hating, grace-sowing-then-reaping, slowing-down-a-bit body of my companion soul. 13 years of being an anomaly in every way.

She did start to lose a bit of weight. We put her on Tramadol for increasing arthritis. Her mobility became inhibited, mostly noticeable by not wanting to go on long walks or being able to handle a long play at the dog park. As this was prolonged, she began to lose some muscle mass and her bones were more pronounced. She was still able, for the time being, to get up and down the stairs and up onto the bed to cuddle with both her humans and her cat pals. It was during this time that her relationship developed with the newer cat in our lives, Stevie (who I alternate between calling Stevie Wonder, Stevie Wickets, Stevie Weavie, etc.). She still had her kinship with Chai, but he was growing more and more an exclusively outdoor cat. Stevie is one of those cats who just does literally whatever the hell she wants whenever she wants to do it, including latching onto a dog. I couldn’t trace it back to a particular moment, but their cuddling became commonplace. Charis would groom both of the cats, cleaning their heads and ears until they would have to stop her. They would nap together, sleep together, rest together, look outlandishly cute together. It simply never got old, as the camera roll on my phone would indicate.

As the Xanax started to not become enough for her night-wandering, we then put her on Trazodone to help her become less fraught. It was most difficult for me to see her not be able to rest and just “be.” I had been warned by friends who were dog owners that her nighttime wandering would be on the horizon. What was to be the last year of her life with us was one of many lazy days, mild walks, finding ways to help her up and down from the bed, putting grips on the stairs, and being patient with her. She deserved all of this and more. She deserved anything she ever needed.

This has been the part that I have been avoiding in taking an entire year to finish this. This is the outrageously difficult part to delve into and in doing so, I realize that I have been running from the emotions because they are too difficult to feel.

As many are aware, August 12, 2017 was a monumental day in the city of Charlottesville. Even two years separated, it is extremely tender to engage. To give another nod to Charis’ presence of grace, I still recall getting home that day after having born witness to the events Downtown that morning. Charis knew nothing of what had happened and there was something healing in that fact. I think what makes dogs so extraordinary is they just love in every moment. You walk in and they act as if it’s the first time they’ve ever seen your face. The excitement and adoration and dedication oozes out of their faces and barks and whines and wags. Even after Charis began slowing down physically, she always, and I mean always, had a tail wag and a kiss and a smile for me. So that day, when we walked through the door, she had no idea what we had encountered and her lack of knowledge about that was momentarily a salve to me. Here was this beautiful, graceful soul who remained consistent and steady in her devotion. So many things are in a constant state of change. Her physical body was absolutely changing, yet her soul and love remained static. When that terrible day happened, the cosmic clock that has our days and times counted down to 365 days. Every day that went by after that point was one less day that I would have her in my life.

36 pounds, or so, of a life nearing the end but a soul full of more love yet to give. 14 years of marking time.

To be honest, I cannot remember many remarkable or notable things about the 364 days following. I suppose in a way, this is a beautiful reminder that what stands out the most are the times that seem unremarkable for they are the moments that weave us together in a beautiful way. It’s about the seemingly ordinary moments that are infused with the extraordinary. I remember her physical body continuing to deteriorate. I remember how much she slept. I remember every treat, rawhide or bully or milk bones, was one that she truly enjoyed. I remember our vet appointments and check-ins and how it seemed that she was holding on and thriving as well as she could. I knew, in my logical mind, that she wouldn’t last forever, as much as we all may have wanted her to. I knew that her little heart wasn’t made out of iron, as it seemed to be. I knew that her soul full of bottomless love would indeed, at some point, find it’s bottom, not because her love would expire, but her very breath would.

Earlier that year I had been asked to participate in an event called Flavored Nation — it was an expo food event where a chef/baker from each state represented with a regionally-inspired dish. I was to go and represent VA with the buttermilk biscuit I made at The Whiskey Jar along with Kite’s Country Ham. The event was scheduled for St. Louis in the fall of 2017 but was relocated to Columbus and rescheduled for August 12, 2018. This would mean that it was to coincide with the one-year anniversary of the white supremacist rally and the attack on our beloved 4th Street. I would be absent from being in town to support the community, to be a presence in our shop. It was incredibly difficult for me to choose to attend the event given the reschedule. But Tina lovingly nudged me to continue with going. She would hold down the fort in Charlottesville and stay in touch with me incessantly. As I prepared and rounded up ingredients and a plan, I felt a bit daunted by the task of making approximately 3,000 potions over the course of 2 days, but I did think it would be a once-in-a-lifetime challenge. My heart would be in VA but I was proud to represent it and bring some welcome positive energy to our city by representing part of what makes our city and region special. I knew that my insides would be a split screen of being present to the event but with my heart focused on my city, our business, and my partner.

About a week before I was due to leave for the event, we took Charis on an extended walk. She seemed a bit more spry than she had for awhile. We walked throughout our neighborhood and truly just enjoyed our time. I still have pictures from this walk that came up in my photo roll, a moment capture of her shadow cast against the sun, walking ahead, tail in the air, jaunting along with that trot-like cadence. This would turn out to be our last evening spent together free of pain, fear, or questioning. When we got back to the house, I gave her a treat, a rawhide that I had picked up earlier that weekend. I’ll always wonder, until the day I die, if giving her that treat led to what happened next, or if what happened next was just a merciful precursor to an extended and painful walk to the end. By the day before I had to leave for the event, she had not eaten for three days. This would happen periodically as a result of waning appetite and medication side effects, but never for that long. She also wasn’t drinking much or any water. I finally called ODAH and made an appointment for her to be dropped off on Friday morning. In a rush, like always, I looker her in the eyes, told her I loved her, kissed her, and asked her to be a good girl until I got home. Of course, I took her presence for granted, the fact that she would be fine and waiting on my return.

As I drove to Columbus, I knew that Allison, our vet, could call at any moment. They were running some tests, including a scan to see what was causing her lack of eating and drinking. I arrived to the convention center in Downtown Columbus, in the pouring rain. I met up with the producer of the event as he drove us to the kitchen to drop off the ingredients and set a time for me to make my product. Literally in the middle of all of this, I received the call I was waiting for — the next few minutes are burned into my mind; her words, my questions, my anxiety, my absolute lack of control over this situation. Charis had some sort of blockage which was why she could not consume food or water. The only way to discover the problem was to have emergency surgery which she might not survive. The scan also showed abnormal nodules all over her liver. Allison was willing to do whatever I wanted to do but I had no fucking idea what that was. I finally was able to pull into the parking deck of the hotel and turn off the car and sit. Our options were to perform the emergency surgery to possibly remove the blockage where she may not survive, put her to sleep right then and there, or pump her with fluids and give her pain relief to keep her going for the next day or two until I could get home. This was literally my worst nightmare. No pet owner wants to experience their death, but we all know that one day we indeed will. So this crisis of decision wasn’t about the fact that it was finally her time. No, it was about the terrible fact that I was not even with her. In that moment I felt like the worst person in the world. I couldn’t believe that I had left her in this condition, in this shape, that she was going to spend hours being strung along just for me to get home. I called Tina and my soul literally gave out. We cried, we questioned, and as a couple, we decided to make the next two days as smooth, easy, and pain-free as possible so I could tell her goodbye and hold her for the last time.

30 pounds, or so, of a little body struggling to hold on for me. 16 years of a full circle readying itself to completion.

To imagine the weight on my shoulders that weekend is an exercise in the surreal. I met the director, Jared, and we decided that I’d come in and bake later that night. That was fine with me as it was taking all I had to even stay at all. I remember him telling me that there was a meet-and-greet and making sure I agreed to be there. When I couldn’t even feign enthusiasm, he looked at me and said “Don’t you want to meet people?” I looked at him and nodded, but inside I was losing it. No, I didn’t want to meet anyone. I didn’t know how I was going to survive this. I didn’t know how to juggle the truth that I was literally counting down the minutes to leave and say goodbye to my best friend and companion of 16 years who had been a grace-full presence through a massive car accident, the loss of my dad, the years of uncertainty and pain, the several moves we had made, the joining together of a family, the constancy of being something I could count on ALWAYS BEING THERE. I went to my hotel room, alone, and the bottom dropped out. Tina was absolutely present with me during all of this but she was also having to be the one in our shop watching military tanks and snipers and SWAT teams and barricades happen all around. I went in to the convention center’s kitchen and tried to focus hard on the task at hand. I didn’t know how to use the massive equipment, the fancy ovens, or even where anything was. I had to use a makeshift measuring cup and spoons. I had to substitute some of my product that had momentarily disappeared. I made small talk with the other chefs as much as I could handle. Then my new friend Jared walks over. There was just this immediate connection I felt. He was kind and encouraging. He isn’t aware of how much just his presence helped me make it through that first night. In a way, he was being very Charis-like.

When it was time to get up and get started the following morning, I went in with my game face on. I had already decided that I was going to leave the event early, sometime on Sunday, if I could make it that long. I spent a day full of putting on a smile and friendly face for strangers who wanted to use one of their purchased tickets to taste a ham biscuit. All I was doing inside was wondering how the Downtown Mall was doing, how was our shop, how was my partner — that was happening on one side of me. The other side could do nothing else but think about the ironic situation I was in. I was wishing for every second to literally speed by so I could be done and go home, but in wishing this I was also wishing her remaining time away. I knew that she was with our family. She spent time with Max, her little brother, and Sam, her sister, along with her nephew, Milo (yes, I do refer to her as a child). They loved on her in my place. Max took her to the fire station where he volunteers. She got to get inside of the truck and he was able to get some pictures. Sam laid her in her dog bed and her and Milo just were a presence with her. Tina would bring her home at night and Charis is actually the very first face I have ever FaceTimed in my life. I tried to talk to her at night, in between of baking and bouts of tears.

I cried myself to sleep on Saturday night, longing for Sunday to come. I had already talked to Jared and Rich, the producer, and they were both more than understanding. I made my product, assembled things, got everything squared away as much as possible and I got on the road. At this point, it was a matter of staying focused on driving so I could be with her. My selfishness and optimism hoped that I could spend one last night with her. I thought through it — I would lay with her, hold her, not sleep a wink so as to not miss one single second. Allison was prepared for any moment when I was ready to bring her to say goodbye.

I’ve always been told that “you will know” — that something about having a dog would enable me and ready me to “know” when it was time. I do believe this is true. The reason? Here was this poor little soul, barely able to walk, sleeping and resting peacefully, and when I walked in the room, her head perked up and she stood up, walked over to me, kissed me and wagged her tail. Tina said that was the most life she had shown for days. I laid down with her and immediately I knew. I couldn’t put her through another night. It was time. I asked Tina for one hour and she got in touch with Allison to meet us at the hospital. I held her and asked the universe to channel the love between us and freeze it in time, to crystallize it, to apprehend it and cement it so that I could revisit this moment for the rest of my life. I pet her head, rubbed her ears, kissed her, told her how good of a girl she was, how she had changed my life for the better, how there would never be another like her. How was it possible for me to tell her how much I loved her? How she made me a better human? How she helped me get through so many moments simply because she existed and was waiting at home for me, every single day? I have to believe that somehow, she knew these things.

When it was time, we loaded her into the car and she laid on my lap for the drive. She was so weak yet so at peace. And even though I didn’t want to feel peace, I did. Feeling peace was difficult because I felt as if I was betraying her by being ok with what was happening. I still remember that “True” by Spandau Ballet was on the radio, a song full of applicable lyrics for the moment. As we drove closer to the hospital, I wanted to scream “STOP!” I’m not ready for this! But I would peer down at her little face, and I tried to be as full of grace towards her as she had been toward me. We sat in the parking space and I looked into the hospital, seeing that the lights were on with two other cars in the parking lot. I carried her in, bypassing the scale that always took her weight before. That didn’t matter now.

Allison and Leigha, one of the vet techs, were waiting. They had laid a blanket down for Charis. After I placed her gently on it, Allison was weeping — she looked at me and said “I don’t want to do this!” That moment means more to me than she will ever likely know. This wasn’t just a clinical transaction, not just her job. This was hard for her as a human, I think because she cared about Tina and I and she knew the bond that I had with Charis. She had so much compassion and they both made this very terrible thing a bit more tolerable in their kindness towards us and Charis. They gave us a few moments alone with her. As she laid there, Tina and I poured all the love we had onto her. The only thing, literally, that we could do. I almost felt suspended, like what was happening was very real yet not real at all. Like a dream. Allison explained that she would give Charis a powerful sedative first. As this coursed through her bloodstream, it was almost immediate. She had been sitting up and just receiving all of the love we were giving. When this hit, she laid her head down with a heavy thud, and in that moment, I knew that we were almost done. The second medication went in and we continued to speak to her, to love her, all of us, four voices and eight hands. I remember the moment I felt her body slightly stiffen, and this reminded me of when I tried to hold my dad’s hand and felt emptiness. Charis was only present in body, not her soul. Her spirit had begun the great drift to wherever it dwells — I would love to think that it dwells within me now.

Weightless, yet incredibly heavy, for her soul bears no physical weight yet has left the biggest transformation on my life.

The days that follow are a blur. I remember getting in the car. I remember sitting in the parking lot with Tina while we cried so very hard. I remember coming home and laying in bed, being held, yet feeling so empty and numb from the ordeal of the past weekend. I remember not being able to talk about it, not being able to post on social media about it. It was too much for me to process. And it has taken the entire year to get to this place.

I’ll share one more thing about this.

Tina and I had gotten hooked into watching a Showtime drama, “The Affair.” It’s had it’s moments of being great and not so, but we have stuck with it. In the final episode of the most recent season, a character named Vic is in the hospital for complications with pancreatic cancer. He is a pediatric surgeon, so he is in a very vulnerable and strange liminal space. The episode began with the refrain of a song that permeated every moment — sometimes a prelude, a refrain, sung a capella by a campus choir, and the entire time it wasn’t anything that sounded familiar to me. In fact, I didn’t fully understand how the song was functioning throughout the story arc. But then, as it neared the end, the original artists began in full the following song:

And it came to me then
That every plan
Is a tiny prayer to father time

As I stared at my shoes
In the ICU
That reeked of piss and 409

And I rationed my breaths
As I said to myself
That I’d already taken too much today

As each descending peak
On the LCD
Took you a little farther away from me
Away from me

Amongst the vending machines
And year-old magazines
In a place where we only say goodbye

It sung like a violent wind
That our memories depend
On a faulty camera in our minds

And I knew that you were truth
I would rather lose
Than to have never lain beside at all

And I looked around
At all the eyes on the ground
As the TV entertained itself

Cause there’s no comfort in the waiting room
Just nervous paces bracing for bad news
And then the nurse comes round
And everyone lifts their head
But I’m thinking of what Sarah said

That love is watching someone die

So who’s gonna watch you die?

(“What Sarah Said” — Death Cab for Cutie)

It was after hearing this song that it all came crashing down, this painful and beautiful symphony of brilliance and darkness, gain and loss, weeping and rejoicing, birth and death. You see, I had believed that in my life I had loved. But it wasn’t until hearing this particular definition of love — that love is watching someone die — that I realized: I had given Charis the ultimate expression of love. I watched the very life, the life that I had loved, leave her. I didn’t walk away from her. I didn’t shy away from the reality. I embraced the moment and she left this world with my hands on her, the same hands that picked her up from the kennel floor 16 years earlier.

I loved her for her whole life and I loved her through her whole death.

And now?

1.4 pounds, or so, of her ashes, sitting in a wooden box on a shelf in my office. I’m unable to enumerate the ways she has changed me, the things I learned from her, the love she imparted to me.

Choosing to have Charis cremated was an easy one for me. I wanted something of her to keep, something concrete and not only abstract. I’ve always been very drawn to the myth of the Phoenix — birth, life, death by fire, ashes and resurrection. There’s something so strikingly beautiful to me about the presence of ashes. More than a site of burial, I can touch these. They are the dust that formed her and to dust she has returned.

But in between of those two realities, a life has been changed by Grace.