where joy and sorrow meet

There is a stone in my purse–a round, smooth stone. I received it on June 10, 2007, when I attended the last service in the old North Anderson Church of God building with my new dog guide, Loretta. Every once in a while, I take the stone out and hold it and remember the truth that it represents:

There’s a place of thirst and hunger where the roots of faith grow deep
And there is rain and rolling thunder when the road is rough and steep
There is hope in desperation there is victory in defeat
At the cross of restoration where joy and sorrow meet

There is a place where hope remains
In crowns of thorns and crimson stains
And tears that fall on Jesus' feet
Where joy and sorrow meet.

Retiring my dog guides has always been hard. There is never a “right time.” When I started attending seminary in 2006, I was working with my third dog, Methan. I hoped to work with Meghan through my seminary career–she would have been nine years old when I graduated. When it became evident that she needed to retire during my first year of seminary, I made arrangements to attend class during the summer of 2007 and hoped to work with her through the end of the semester. This, too, became impossible–her arthritis became so painful that she refused to climb stairs, and her seizure medication made her so fatigued that she could not walk alertly.

I spent the final weeks of the spring of 2007 in seminary without my dog at my side. Meg moved downstairs to live with my parents. I cried a lot, and my cats hid and fought with each other. On the Sunday before I left for dog training, the choir sang “We Are Never Alone,” and I cried again. Letting go of Meg early was one of the hardest things I had ever done. Not only did I need to let Meg go; but I needed to cut short my grief so that I could open my heart joyfully to this new dog whose name I did not know. She, after all, did not know anything about why I would be feeling so weepy. She would need me to be happy about her.

“Where Joy and Sorrow Meet” was an appropriate song for our beginning together. Upon our arrival home, one of my black cats responded to Loretta by hissing and spitting in her face as we walked past. Not ten feet away, in the next room, the other black cat ran up with a happy meow and tried to kiss her. Loretta had already been conditioned by Sable’s grumpy welcome. She backed away from Inca in fear. The cats certainly epitomized the meeting of joy and sorrow.

After some time, Loretta and Inca became good friends. Sable never stopped hissing, but I think it became a game. Sable often stood in doorways and hissed just as I called to Loretta from the other room. After about three hisses, Loretta would jump over Sable and run to me. During Loretta’s time with me, my relationships with her and my three cats became so normal that I began to forget that things had ever been different. They all checkec on each other when things weren’t quite right. Over the past year, they have often checked on me and my husband when things have not been quite right.

At the end of april, Inca left us due to complications of chronic kidney disease. There is no good phrase for this–in our house we say “Inca went away.” For the cats, it might be an apt descriptor. We took her, and they have looked in her places and not found her. Our observation is that it is a painful thing for them. The grief is deep, and the cats’ journey is painful for us to watch.

Later in that same week, Loretta transitioned to her retirement home. The transition was easy, and she is happy. The process is still not easy for me–or for the cats. Sable began lying in Loretta’s favorite spots, as well as in her bed. She began bullying the other cat, Sierra. The bullying only stopped when Loretta came for a visit earlier this month.

Music has, once again, played a pivotal role as I have grieved. Ironically, on the day following Inca’s departure, I was with a different choir, this time at Park Place Church of God, and this time I was singing–“We Are Not Alone.” We did it twice over the next few weeks. Perhaps I needed it…

As I prepare to train with the new dog and ultimately to bring her home, I think about the meeting of joy and sorrow. Inca has welcomed home three of my previous four dogs with that happy little meow. She is not here to greet the new dog, and that amplifies the sorrow quotient greatly for me this time. Yet it is I who experience the difference here, not the new dog. The new dog will greet me just as exuberantly (or not) as she would in any other circumstance. I must wrestle the meeting of joy and sorrow and embrace the joy, all while being thankful for what the sorrow represents. I will find a way. Today, I am not there. Today I’m just holding the stone and trusting that God will help me to embrace the joy fully at the right time. When I embrace the joy, I will hold the stone and be thankful that I have taken another step on the journey toward growth and healing.

One more stray thought… I begin my training while my church is host to our global gathering of delegates for our convention. Sometimes I feel selfish focusing on my own internal things while this is going on… Sometimes I think about songs like “Where Joy and Sorrow Meet,” and I think that what I have written here has nothing to do with the “real” and proper interpretation of the song, or the Gospel, or the biblical text that inspired the piece, etc. But then I think that if God is not involved or concerned about the day to day of our lives, and if our lives are not connected with whatever we do to serve God, then something is wrong. So while I still hold the stone, I am thankful to worship a God who is big enough to care about what is global and intimate enough to care about such things as how I grieve and heal.

About Sarah Blake LaRose

Sarah Blake LaRose teaches Biblical Hebrew and Greek at Anderson University School of Theology and Christian Ministry in Anderson, Indiana. She is one of three blind academic scholars who received the Jacob Bolotin Award from the National Federation of the Blind in 2016 in recognition of innovative work in the field of access to biblical language texts and tools for people who are blind. In addition to her work as a professor, she provides braille transcription services specializing in ancient languages. Her research interests concern the intersection of disability, poverty, and biblical studies.

About Sarah Blake LaRose

Sarah Blake LaRose teaches Biblical Hebrew and Greek at Anderson University School of Theology and Christian Ministry in Anderson, Indiana. She is one of three blind academic scholars who received the Jacob Bolotin Award from the National Federation of the Blind in 2016 in recognition of innovative work in the field of access to biblical language texts and tools for people who are blind. In addition to her work as a professor, she provides braille transcription services specializing in ancient languages. Her research interests concern the intersection of disability, poverty, and biblical studies.

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