Life is Messy

            A few years ago, one of my dearest friends found herself suddenly widowed at the age of 40.  It was during the weeks and months that followed when I first heard her make the statement, “Life is messy.”

            Life is messy.  I think maybe it was intended to be.  Relationships are messy.  Jobs and careers can get messy.  Living in community with others?  Often messy. Being married?  Messy.  Raising children?  No other way to do it than messy.

            I’ve been thinking about the times when life is messiest.  Times when the debris that follows me starts piling up. When I look back and see that I’ve left a wake even bigger than I’d thought.  Messiness.  Lost opportunities.  Poor scheduling.  Insecurities and irritations.  People left hanging, wondering.  Caught in my wake.

            Times of physical pain or illness.  That’s when I’m at my worst.   Life then is messier than normal.  My normally short fuse becomes even shorter, almost nonexistent.  I’m abrupt and rude.  I hurt people.  And damage relationships.

            Dark times.  Stressful times.  When I momentarily lose my way and then struggle just trying to get my bearings again. It takes a toll on me.  And the people around me.  The debris can be overwhelming.

            But then, life is messy even in the good times.  Planning and taking vacations.  Celebrating special occasions.  Spending times with the people I love.  Even at it’s best, there’s mess.

            The night before last, our dog Lucy had puppies.  Ten of them.  Lucy’s a golden retriever/yellow lab mix.  And not very big.  We’d been getting a little concerned about how large she was getting.  Hoping that she wouldn’t have a difficult delivery.

            We got home that afternoon around 4:00 and found the carpet on our bottom landing shredded.  Lucy was prancing around, crying and yelping.  She raced up to our bedroom and dove under the bed.  Having read that whelping puppies can be messy, I quickly changed my clothes before sitting down on the floor and coaxing her out from under the bed.

            After a moment of indecision, she flew from under the bed and curled up on my lap.  Clearly disturbed by what she was experiencing.  That’s when I felt the first bubble of membrane already coming from her, and realized that she was nearly ready.

            Geoff and I had talked about how we could do her birthing time.  Our house is a busy place.  And what we had read about whelping puppies indicated that the mother dog needs privacy and a quiet place.  We’d hoped that each of our kids could have the opportunity to see at least one puppy birthed.  But we also both realized that our first priority had to be to Lucy.  Giving her whatever she needed during this time.

            One of our teenaged daughters and I were the only ones with her initially. Lucy seemed okay with us being there. And we tried to keep the rest of the activity in our house to a minimum.  To keep Lucy calm.

            As the evening wore on, a puppy was born.  And then another.  We were able to rotate kids through so that two or three got to be there for each birth. For the miracle.  They were excited, but quiet.  They knew they had to be.  For Lucy’s sake.

            We’d laid an old shower curtain on the floor in the middle of our room, and covered this with an old, torn blue blanket, and a variety of clean rags. The blanket quickly became a mess. Soaked with blood and mostly-clear amniotic fluid.

            Each new puppy came out in a clear fluid-filled sac, which Lucy quickly tore open. Then she’d grab hold of the umbilical cord and chew through it.  She’d nudge the puppy, licking it intently.  Willing it to breathe.  Then she’d begin cleaning off the blood from the umbilical cord.  She worked intently on each puppy right up until her body began to heave again with the beginnings of the next birth.

            By midnight we had five puppies, and our bedroom was filled with kids.  Six or seven of our kids and foster kids, and three of our kids’ teenage friends who’d shown up just hoping to get to see the puppies born.  One by one the number of people in our bedroom, sitting around the edges of that old shower curtain, had increased.  We kept an eye on Lucy, trying to make sure that we weren’t overwhelming her.

            But she didn’t seem bothered by the presence of all the kids.  In fact, she took turns looking intently at each one. And each time, as the labor pains would begin again, and her little body would shudder with great efforts, Lucy would receive encouragement and love from all those around her.

            “You’re okay, Luce.”

            “You’ve got it, girl.”

            “Good girl, Lucy.  Just push, Honey.”

            Hands would reach out to gently rub her back and her sides.  Stroke her ears.

            I sat back and watched what was unfolding around me.  Little Lucy, enduring the birthing process for the first time.  And 10 or 11 young faces all gathered around, loving her, encouraging her, and caring for her and her babies.

            I watched as each puppy emerged and Lucy tore open the membrane and licked up the fluid and the blood until it was gone.  She worked over each puppy.  Removing every drop until each puppy was dry and fluffy.   Then she’d turn her attention to the mess that came out with each birth.  Cleaning up as much of it as possible.

            And I sat in awe watching her generosity and her graciousness.  This moment, that she was willing to share with all of us.  To allow herself to be surrounded by those who loved her.  Even if they were maybe too intrusive.  And too loud.  She looked at each one, acknowledging their presence there.  And, I think, understanding that their intent was to support her in this time of magnificence.  She alone allowed it.  She seemed to accept it.  And even to appreciate it.

            All I did was watch.  In awe of the birthing process.  And in awe of our gracious little dog.

            Birth is messy.  But if life is messy then it certainly makes sense that it would begin that way.  And I suppose death, even in the best of circumstances, is probably messy, as well.

            Maybe our job is to just accept it as it comes.  In all of its messiness.  And maybe, if we can muster the strength of character, our job is just to clean it up as much as possible as we go.  Just like Lucy did.  By appreciating those who go through life with us.  Appreciating their love and support.  Though even their mere presence may be inadequate.  To love them.  And appreciate that they’re there.  When maybe that’s all they know to do.  That, and a little word of encouragement.  Maybe an occasional pat on the head.

            Maybe that’s the point of the whole thing.  That life IS messy.  But maybe we make it just a teensy bit less messy by being generous of spirit.  By loving and appreciating those who try to support us through it.  By letting them see our pain.  And accepting their efforts to help.  Maybe that’s all we can do.  To clean up the mess.

            That’s what I’ve been thinking, anyway.  Since watching our dog Lucy living life more graciously than I do.  And cleaning up the mess.