Tag Archives: love

Bug (2014-2026)

My precious chihuahua Bug—also known as Buggy, Miss Bug, Lady Bug, Little Deer Dog, and Booga—died at 5:15 a.m. Saturday, June 27, 2026. She took her last breath cuddled up on my chest, her sister Dorothy Parker at her side.

Bug was a delightfully awkward long-haired chihuahua, a bundle of contradictions and neuroses. Shockingly athletic but stereotypically nervous, sweet and social but shy, whip smart but tentative. She was afraid of thunder, loved to have her belly rubbed, hated snow, enjoyed rolling in smelly grass, and was a devoted yogi dog. Her spectacular ears would stand straight up and a little out when she was curious, her brow furrowed like an old man when she was confused or worried, and her nose wiggled like a bunny when she was sniffing the night air in the yoga garden. She was afraid to walk up the stairs to our second floor and had to be carried, but she flew down the same stairs every morning to get to breakfast. And when she barked her front feet lifted off the floor, her dainty eight-pound body standing brave.

She came into my family’s life nine months after the death of my daughter Mackenzie, when my daughter Savannah and future son-in-law Levi were living with me and my husband in St. Louis. Grief in the house at that time was heavy and dark, but getting a nervous rescue chihuahua acclimated to urban life, particularly in the city dog park across the street from our loft, was hilarious. Bug made us laugh in spite of our sorrows, and her sweet face and awkward manner warmed our hearts. This tiny little angel dog reminded us that our broken hearts were still beating. My friend Carol who found Bug for us knew way before I could, that I needed a new dog to love, and her selection of Bug was a perfect, priceless gift.

It is cliché to say that I have lost my best friend. Yet, I have, indeed, lost my best friend. I have lost a friend who loved me healthy or wrecked, clean or stinky (particularly stinky). She loved me on the good days and the bad days, and she forgave me for adopting a rambunctious doodle puppy who turned our peaceful house into chaos. I have lost a friend who made me smile and made me laugh, a friend who went with me on a journey of grief and starting life all over again.

I have lost a fierce friend who walked with me through fire.

Diagnosed with a heart murmur in November, she started meds in January when x-rays revealed a slight enlargement of her heart. Her symptoms were mild and sporadic, and she kept on living like she had always lived, running instead of walking when I said “outside” or “treat,” pigging out on her food and on Dorothy Parker’s, and showing up for duty every day to rid our front porch of squirrels and mail carriers.

I needed more time, even as I know too well that you never get the time you need with the special souls in your life, no matter how long you are fortunate to be in their presence. I thought we had more time, a year at least, perhaps two. In the last three weeks her symptoms worsened, however, and became more frequent in the week before she died. Still, between episodes of congestion and fainting spells, she was her usual spunky and silly self. She ate her breakfast and dinner with her usual enthusiasm, asked to go outside just to sit on the yoga deck, snarled at Dorothy Parker for trying to take her place on the sofa, and begged for a nibble of my buttered toast every morning. On the evening before she died, she greeted me at the front door when I returned from yoga class, her tail wagging her butt and her doe eyes demanding I explain my absence.

Gah. Typing that last sentence about the last time Bug will ever greet me at the front door has me sobbing all over again.

So here I am, standing at one of those markers in my life when I know that tomorrow I must continue my journey without one of the souls who was necessary to bring me to this time and to this place.

All I can do is say goodbye and goodnight, my dear friend Bug. You warmed my heart every single day you were in my life, you were loved and adored and cherished, and I will keep your light tucked up and safe for my forever.

Still Life

My dad died twenty-five years ago today, and I’m still processing the loss of him. He was a large presence in every room he ever occupied, and still my life feels too quiet without him.

Last week, a childhood friend of mine who was very close to my dad texted me some photos from the 1980s, photos of my dad that he had run across while moving some boxes in his office. How funny these photos appearing on the eve of the twenty-fifth year of Earth without Jim Pratt. What good timing the appearance of these long-lost photographs.

The spirits of our dead have the power to find us. Or we have the power to find them when we need them. However you choose to see it or believe, these reunions are undeniable.

When my dad died in 2001, I was a stressed-out and overworked thirty-four-year old wife and mother of young children. I worked full time, was building a career as a historian, and was a doctoral student. I didn’t have time to pee, let alone process my grief. I administered my dad’s estate, but I didn’t have time to tend to my heart. It was an enormous sorrow to lose my fifty-seven-year-old father, but I didn’t know how to step off the treadmill. I missed my dad. I talked to him. His spirit walked me through every big decision. But life, as it always does, moved on, and I moved on, too, without a proper period of grieving. I didn’t take time to be still long enough to tend to my loss, and so I never really grieved.

The years sailed by, and then Mack died in 2014.

And then, for me, the world stood unbearably still.

I had to be still, and I let myself fall into the arms of my grief. Losing a parent is expected, but losing a child is not supposed to happen, and if you do not stop to grieve the loss of a child the pain of it will kill you. All I did for the next four years after Mack died was grieve. I grieved for Mack. I grieved for me. I grieved for our family, especially Savannah who was now an only child. I grieved for all of Mack’s friends and all of the people who would never get to know her.

And I grieved for my dad.

Finally.

And still.

I am grieving.

Life has moved on, it is still moving on. Without my daughter. Without my dad.

But now I know that when grief steps in I need to slow down. To soften. To be still. To sit in the fire. To process my pain and then make my peace with it.

Because during the last three years, and particularly the last seven months, I have been learning to be still. Practicing stillness and presence. Practicing sitting with my feelings, processing joy on the good days and grief on the sad days, and finding contentment despite my losses.

For my dad, I’ve been sitting still all week. Twenty-five years seems forever ago, but my memories are vivid like yesterday. All week I’ve been sitting with my dad and sitting with Mack, and my favorite grandmother who died in 1993, and some of the bitterness of past disappointments that have lingered in my bones. Grief is funny that way when you are still. It has a habit of bubbling up to the surface from the various vacancies in your heart, testing you, keeping you honest, and making life real.

The nerf basketball hoop was stuck to the sliding-glass door just off the kitchen, and separating the great room of our house from the swimming pool. It was serious business, basketball at that hoop. Here is Jim dunking and my friend Scott cheering him on.
This is classic Jim Pratt. Relaxed. A Pepsi at hand. Shit-eating grin on his face, likely because he kicked somebody’s ass at a game or an argument.

These are two of the photos my friend sent to me. Both made me laugh. Both made me cry. Grateful for both emotions and a little time to sit still with them and remember. Thanks, Matt, for sharing them.

Mack and the Light

Time has not healed my heart from the loss of Mackenzie. Acceptance did not soothe my spirit from the pain of her absence. Family and friends and dogs are some days no remedy whatsoever for my yearning for her freckled face, her silly jokes, and her unflappable ease. Work, writing, and art have not filled the void she left. Six years of therapy has not ended my grief. My daily practice of yoga and meditation has not altered my status as a bereaved mother.

But

Yet

Despite the limitations of all these remedies, and because of them, I can sit still in the presence of Mack’s absence and my grief. Even on her birthday. I can hold all the pain and all the longing and still be present in my life and live on for Mack, for Savannah, and for me.

Because

Time keeps teaching me how to tend to a fragile heart. Acceptance is the license for my spirit to keep on marching forward. Family and friends and dogs remind me every day that a broken heart and a shattered spirit can still know love and joy and connection to things beyond the self. Work, writing, and art give me purpose. Therapy offers me perspective and dispassionately guides my emotional and mental well-being. My daily practice of yoga and meditation has shown me that bereaved mother is not the entirety of my being and that I can choose to suffer or not suffer and that Mack would be so sad to know that I have suffered.

Time, acceptance, family, friends, dogs, work, writing, art, therapy, yoga, and meditation have nourished my body, mind, and spirit in beautiful and different ways. They have each tended to my tender heart. They have made me resilient and courageous, qualities that have healed my suffering. I know now that I need to be soft as well as strong. That bending is not weakness. To feel my pain is to be able to witness the pain of others. That life is hard. That to be open-hearted might break you but that being open-hearted is the only way to travel this terrifying, beautiful human journey.

Mack knew all of this. She was only twenty, but she knew.

And now I know what she knew, and I am free. Not free of missing her. Not free of the pain of my grief. Rather I am free to miss her, free to feel the pain of my grief however I need to, and also free to live a joyful life that would make her proud. She would be so happy to know that her once stressed-out, hard-nosed, unhappy momma bear is finally content.

On this Mack Day, what would have been my remarkable daughter’s 32nd birthday, I am grateful for her. I am grateful for time and acceptance as well as my yoga and meditation practice. I am grateful for a cozy house and a comfortable life with access to therapy and yoga classes. I am so damned lucky in family and friends and dogs. I am grateful for the peaceful life I have painstakingly curated and for intellectually stimulating work and a creative life that keeps me challenged. I am grateful to have made it to 59, through more than eleven years now without Mack. I am grateful to still be learning and growing while at the same time content with where I am and who I am right now.

I am a different woman than I was before my life was shattered in October 2014. Better in many ways. Softer and more tolerant. Less hard on myself and less bitter about the world. I like myself so much more than I ever did before Mack died. It is hard to know that surviving trauma with grace results in an improved human being on the other side. I would do anything to have avoided that trauma, and if it was within my power I would take Mack back in a second and give up my evolution. I would always choose her over me. Alas, I must simply be grateful that Mack’s spirit inspired me to survive my terrible loss by choosing the light in me instead of the darkness.

Mack was ever the light. So as long as there are Mack Days as well as ordinary Tuesdays, and as long as there is breath in my body, I will endeavor to keep choosing the light.

On Mack Day it is easier on my heart to remember Mack as a kid. She loved having a St. Patrick’s Day birthday and embraced the leprechaun inside of her. The photo of Mack dressed for Halloween is one of my favorites. The watercolor painting above I’ve posted before, but I think it captures the dancing light of Mack’s spirit as I knew it and see it now.

Hey, Dad

Your birthday is a dreary, bone chiller this year. My hands—your hands—felt the intensity of this Midwest January day as I filled the birdfeeders at dawn. My aging skin is thinner than ever this year in winter cold, and although I venture out every day with my dog, I curse the clinging of winter to my bones and the hour or more of residual shivering.

Where are you today?

Did you pop into Tracy’s kitchen to rate her birthday chocolate cupcakes with that boiled caramel frosting you loved? She says the frosting is harder than it should be. But lots of things are harder these days. Do you know the planet is on fire? That the party you always voted for is waging war on truth and decency and American democracy? That cruelty is trying to best compassion once and for all?

Goodness, I hope you can’t know, that you don’t know. I like to imagine my beloved dead oblivious to the sorrows the living must witness in 2026.

On what would have been your 82nd birthday, I choose to see your spirit on a golf course in California. I do that sometimes, see you somewhere, the details as vivid as a picture. Your twenty-five-year absence has not dimmed my imagination, and Mack’s eleven-year absence has made me something of a professional daydreamer writing living scenarios for you both.

So, yes, it is a golf course for your spirit today, 36 holes with Mack. I see it as clearly as if I was standing on the tee box behind you. You in your Gilligan bucket hat and Mack in Old Navy flipflops. It is 78 degrees, and the sun is sparkling off the cerulean blue pond to the left of the fairway. You are drinking a Pepsi from one of those tall glass bottles and making a complicated wager with Mack about your respective shots to an emerald green.

It is both a wondrous and a disconcerting place here in this humble and quiet life (back in Illinois where you first brought me in 1979), now uncomfortably sandwiched as a human living between a lost father and a lost daughter. Yet here I am, breathing and searching, always searching, for myself and humanity. Two of my greatest teachers are now spirit guides, but I have found my way home.

Do you think I have needed my dad for too long? Is it a bother to be a member of the spirit committee of a skeptical and too-serious woman when you were ever the optimistic, joyful child? I hope watching the passing of my time and my imperfect life unfolding isn’t too much of a downer, but you must watch because I wish it. The living carry all the sorrow, and therefore we get to make all the rules for our honored dead.

I know this truth because I am older now than you. You may have noticed my hair is pepper and salt and there are these lines on my face that I thought I would outrun because I always looked so much younger than my years. Like you always looked younger than your years. But there they are, those lines, mocking my hubris; and there you are, no longer aging.

Dad kicking my ass in scrabble, c. 1993.

I am wiser now, too, I promise. But would you believe that I am also more tender? Do you see that these lines on my face mirror the cracking open of my heart? It took a lifetime and the weight of grief to learn it, and Mack still must remind me most days, but I am easier on myself and on the world than I was back in the days when you warned me to loosen my death grip on living.

I did come ‘round to your way of thinking. Eventually.

Thanks, Pops. For the freckles and the Disney vacations. For the silly games and the Ding Dongs and the Twinkies. For the smarts and the sarcasm and even the crooked pinkies you gave me. But I do wish you would have kept that fivehead to yourself. It didn’t bother me for most of my life, but it turns out it gave the sun too easy a target. Did you hear me cursing our fiveheads last week as the dermatologist dug out a small spot of basal cell carcinoma from the top of that great expanse of exposed skin you gave me?

Nothing in life is perfect or easy and that, I suppose, is the lesson. We get what we get and we do what we can do to survive it. These days I am holding my own. I have my previous Savannah. I have a lovely family and brilliant friends, adorable dogs, and a peaceful home. I have work that feeds my mind and yoga that nourishes my soul. Yet for all that is good, the milestones, like these missed birthdays, weigh heavy on my bones.

So, hey, Dad, since it’s your birthday, please pop in today while Tracy and I are shooting pool at the bar while eating your birthday cupcakes. Check in on Savannah from time to time, will ya? And please, please, please, will you remain on my spirit committee so long as I keep Mack as committee chair?

Savannah with my dad, Jim Pratt (17 January 1944-26 March 2001), c. 1993.

Mack Day (no. 11)

She is still here, my Mack. She resides in my heart. She dances daily in my thoughts. She is every four-leaf clover. I tell her all the big stuff and the hard stuff and the stuff about which I know not what to do. Her good spirit laughs with me, cheers me on, and gives me courage in the dark. I will always need her, like I need water and air and doughnuts.

Mack Day, her birthday, is always a bad day and a good day. My tears and longing for her are more bitter, but I also celebrate her joy of being a leprechaun, quarter Irish and born on St. Patrick’s Day. As I have done eleven years now, I will take Mack Day to grieve my girl and to give myself space and a little extra grace. To sob alone and feel in my bones the loss of her. To eat something decadent for her. To belly laugh at least once for her.

This year is a discombobulating year of contrasts for me, and I have been thrown off balance.

As a historian supported by the National Endowment for the Humanities, my livelihood, health benefits, and life’s work are in jeopardy. The assault on American democracy, the dismantling of our government, and the turning away of our country’s core values are making me physically and emotionally unwell. As a voter, what is happening enrages me. As a woman and a mother, I am horrified. As a human being who cares about the vulnerable people among us, I am terrified. And as a historian of American history, I am profoundly sad.

If Mack were here today, she would have wisdom for me to better navigate my anger, horror, terror, and sadness. She had this way of diffusing catastrophe, of redirecting negativity, and soothing anxiety. Her wit and her silly songs could walk me back from every ledge.

As I am missing her ever so keenly in this difficult historical moment, so too is her absence a fresh heartbreak as I meet my own personal, triumphant moment. I would do anything to have Mack with me to celebrate in April the publication of my new book Loving Lincoln, the deeply personal and most important creative achievement of my life. Oh my, would she have loved the cover of this book. It would have produced one of her famous cackles, and she would have been so proud of her Momma Bear and the book, giddy that her kindergarten drawing of Abraham Lincoln was published within it. I can hear her voice in her favorite refrain, “Lincoln is dead, mom, you know that, right?”  

There are few things in this mortal life we can control. While I must face this Mack Day alone, I will go forth into the sunshine as best I can, with Mack’s good cheer in tow. I will let the tears flow (sorry, my dear girl), but I will also raise a Guinness. To Mackenzie Kathleen McDermott, I am grateful you were here. I was damned lucky to have such a daughter, a bright light who touched the lives of every person who knew her.

As I have always done, I will hug Mack’s spirit close to my heart, keep her quiet wisdom in my mind, and let her joy put the spring in my step. But perhaps during this year—this unbalanced, terrible, joyful year—I will find new ways for Mack to guide me, to inspire me, and to sally me forth through all the darkness and all of the light. And no matter what happens to me or my job or my country, I will endeavor to be good and to be true. To locate a new and lasting peace of mind. To honor Mack’s faith in me. To do justice to all she was and all she taught me.

Cheers and peace and happy Mack Day.

Mack poking fun of the scholarly nature of my first book, The Jury in Lincoln’s America, in 2012.

Mack with Me

By myself, I am walking,
Mindfulness in all my steps,
Heel to toe, toe to earth.
Purposeful, with measurement.
In the walking, in my presence,
I find solace out of sorrow.
Unaccompanied, I walk in silence.
Yet I am not alone.

Mack is here.

Her presence in my present
Is my permission.
To breathe. To see.
To find my feet.
To find my peace.

By myself, the mornings
Are coffee and worries.
Blurry with my future,
Foreverness of loneliness.
Caffeine anxiety
For future years of misery.
I lose myself in the tyranny
Of incapacity for grace and dignity.

Mack is not in this state with me.

Her no-show no surprise to me.
To fret. To sweat
What I cannot change and cannot know
Just wastes precious time
She did not get.

By myself, in bed at night,
I fight to sleep.
To be at rest.
I toss and turn through history.
Through memories of who I was
When Mack was here.
When tragedy was unforeseen.
But when I wish upon the past,

Mack will not reminisce with me.

She sees no good
In glances back.
To dwell on loss, forget what’s not.
It breaks her heart
To see me lost.

By myself, I need to breathe.
To learn to sleep.
To find my dreams. To stay awake.
With every step. Through every task.
Through every day.
I need to learn to live for now.
To be content with me
And how to be right here,

Where Mack will be.

Where joyfulness can walk with me,
And Mack with me.
How I can laugh
And hope and see
All the life in front of me.

For you, my dear Mackenzie, on your birthday.
I am here. With you. In the present.

Permanent Pain and Bright Beginnings

Five years ago today, the beautiful world fell into darkness when the light of our lives left us. Mackenzie Kathleen McDermott was a beaming smile of sunshine, a giggling goof of joy, and a bulldozing force of nature. Her absence left holes in the hearts of everyone who loved her, holes that can never be refilled.

Five years have filled no holes. Five years have healed no pain. Five years have not made me miss her less nor feel her absence less keenly. In fact, some days–days like today–I miss her more than ever.

Balance is the lesson I have learned in the deepest grief of a mother’s broken heart. Every day I must balance my love for Mack and my permanent pain from the loss of her. Every day is a struggle, but on the good days, sprinkled in between the bad and the okay and the barely breathing, I can find that balance. I can take hold of some peace and find some solace. I have that scar upon my heart, yes, but joy and beauty and light are possible.

Today, Savannah is starting an exciting new job. Today, I am moving into a charming old house in a new town. Today, Kevin starts looking for his own path, too. Today is going to be one of those days when balance is vital, as our little family carries all of our pain and all of our love forward into the next five years without Mack.

Today I walk with sorrow, but I also walk with hope and the real prospect of peace. I walk onward into the sunshine of this bright beginning.



Mack Saying Hello

My sister’s cell phone crashed this week; and she lost everything on it. She was particularly sad to have lost a special Mack album of photos that would sometimes randomly pop up when Tracy was least expecting it. Like Mack finding a way to be present. Like Mack saying hello.

Well, tonight when Tracy was setting up her new phone, that Mack album showed up, the only files to successfully transfer from her old phone. No contacts, selfies, or other photos; just that Mack album. Tracy was certain it hadn’t been there before, but there it was, nonetheless, welcomed and cherished. It was like Mack finding a way to be present. Like Mack saying hello.

It’s Weird. It’s Wonderful. And it’s little bit of Mack magic that neither my sister nor I care to question. Because sometimes we really need Mack to be present. And we love it when she pops in to say hello…

More Hugs

Today is National Hug Day, and although these ubiquitous national days often make my eyes roll, this one is perfectly Mack appropriate. Mack hugged her people with rib-breaking enthusiasm, and there was no escape when her long arms gathered you in for a squeeze. So in honor of Mack on this National Hug Day, I want to encourage you all to offer up your best Big Mack hug to someone you love; and to celebrate the day and to honor my world champion hugger, I offer this repost of a blog I wrote back in November 2014…

Hugs

If you were a person in Mack’s life, you knew that you were going to get hugs. Lots of hugs. From big bear hugs to hand hugs,* Mack hugged not only her own family members and her closest friends, but also her teachers, her coaches, and even some people she was just getting to know. She hugged you for pictures, she snuck up on you to hug you, and there was no escape from her strong grip if she decided you needed one of her famous Big Mack squeezes. Mack was not a big talker, and she was never verbally effusive with her emotions. Instead, she chose to love people by physically embracing them. Mack was full of love and delight for the people who were special to her. But Mack’s hugs were more about her wish to make those she hugged feel unconditionally loved and accepted than they were about showing her own affection.

Mack’s hugs became legendary, especially among all of her various adopted moms. At Mack’s memorial service, one of those special women (Sonya, a basketball mom and good friend) told me that she always looked forward to getting settled in at the basketball games, because she knew that even if she had just seen her the night before, Mack would run up the bleachers and give her a huge hug as if she hadn’t seen her in months. Another adopted mom (Ellen, who raised one of Mack’s oldest friends) wrote to me about how much she loved those hugs, referring to Mack as “the human Great Dane who thought she was a lap puppy.”

Mack was, indeed, a bit like a big happy puppy dog. So many photographs of her with friends reveal her inner marshmallow. She loved people hard, and she hugged them harder. Sometimes she hugged me so hard, she squeezed the air right out of my lungs. If I had a bad day, a bear hug from my Mack could make all of my worries melt away. Often, she would wrap her long arms around my shoulders, pull my head onto her chest, rest her chin on the top of my head, pat my back and say, “momma knows, momma knows.” She was being goofy and ridiculous, but she was also showing love and tenderness in her own unique way…with a Big Mack hug. God, I just loved those hugs. I cannot imagine how I will get through the rest of my life without them; and I would sell my soul to the devil for just one more.

 *Mack invented hand hugs sometime in high school. Basically, a hand hug is when two people press their palms together and wrap their own thumbs around the other person’s hand. It was just one of many silly rituals that Mack created to bond with teammates, be close with friends without being too gushy about it, and to give people around her an excuse to smile, laugh, and to be close to one another.

The hugging starting early with my Macko…

Hugs 11

Mack in pink is scooping up a couple of kindergarten friends here and Elyse (in the middle) was a life-long victim of Mack’s bear hugs.

Teammates were easy targets for Mack’s hugs. Mack offered her hugs in celebration of big wins and in consolation when the losses came hard…

hugging Zahna
hugging Amber
hugging Corinne
hugging Sarah

Mack loved to wrap her arms around her “big” Sissy…

this is a Macko tackle hug

And she loved her Papa Bear…

Hugs 4

And here Mack is huggin’ on a football opponent…

Hugs 9

ha ha…just kidding (but what an awesome tackle, right?)

Mack was particularly fond of hugging those she called her “small, huggable people” and here she is with two of her favorites…

hugging Jackie
hugging Brytani

Kimber, Mack’s friend and special teammate (Mack and Kimber formed the battery of the SHS softball team), offered this lovely “hand hug” tribute to Mack on Mack’s birthday last year…

Hugs 12

Check out the previous Hugs blog for more photos of Mack squeezing the puddin’ out of the people she loved: https://macksmommabear.com/2014/11/24/hugs/

But when you’re done, go hug someone to pieces. That would be the best way to honor Mack on National Hug Day!

Bug and Us

A tiny Chihuahua came to live with us back in August, and since then she has romped, cuddled, and squeaked her way into our hearts. We are beyond charmed by her awkward eagerness to be a special buddy to me, to Kevin, and to Pepper, our reluctant Pomeranian. We call her Bug, although her growing importance in our lives suggests a more respectful moniker…perhaps Miss Bug? Everyone who meets her is immediately enchanted by her quirky personality, her sweet spirit, and her gentle nature. One minute she is a bouncing little goofball, acting wild, and the next minute she is power napping atop the back of the old leather chair in my office. She is a whole lot of funny and a little bit of weird and oh so very delightful…just like Mack; and sometimes I wonder if Mack handpicked Bug herself and sent her to us.IMG_5288

Adopting Bug turned our house a little upside down at first with house training, fur-sibling rivalries, and life adjustments by and to our new little family member. But upside down was a good thing. It was exactly what we needed. We had become too sheltered. Too comfortable with our seclusion. Too exhausted by grief to seek out new happiness in the world. Kevin needed a project; I had become too reliant on Pepper to calm my anxieties; and Pepper needed a furry companion, even though she is still not convinced that Bug should stay. Bug arrived at our house with the energy and intensity of a puppy, her need for training dramatically altered our only-dog complacency and pushed us into the previously avoided neighborhood dog park where we have met new people and new dogs. Bug arrived at our house, claiming her spot as the baby in the family and demanding the constant attention of all three of us. Yet most importantly, I think, Bug arrived at our house to save us.

Grief is a lonely and bitter journey, but at times external forces make you stop to share the road; and when you do, little comforts are frequently your reward. I have learned that those comforts that come along the way are frequently unexpected and often arrive in small packages. In August, one of those unexpected and small comforts had arrived in the form of a tiny Chihuahua. But as my difficult 2015 is drawing to a close, I now realize that Bug is so much more than just an unexpected comfort. In recent days, I have realized that this silly, six-pound doggie has become my special friend; but she has become a sort of spirit animal to me as well. Bug’s dorky lovability, her goofy personality, and her kind spirit daily remind me of the qualities in Mack I always admired and promised to emulate a year ago as I faced my first New Year without her. The year 2015 has been a struggle, and it is a constant battle to survive my loss with grace. Bug reveals to me that I still have the capacity to love, to find new joys in unexpected places, and to embrace the future with a little hope. She can provide some grace with me on this journey.

Bug’s cute little face both connects me to Mack and gives me some strength to face 2016 without Mack. I know in my bones and in my soul that Mack would be so pleased that her dad and I have let this sweet little animal into our hearts. She believed that animals held the power to lighten many sorrows, and it would be no surprise to her that Bug could melt her Momma Bear’s heart. Of course, Mack would remain skeptical about the impact that Bug might have on our reluctant Pomeranian, but she would wholeheartedly approve of our new little friend and the magic of her little heart full of love for us all.

IMG_5881       IMG_5817 IMG_5431

And because I cannot pass a blog without an image of my Macko, here she is loving up on Pepper…

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