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Lyricist Robert Hunter penned the profound lyric, “If you look hard enough, sometimes the light shines in the strangest places,” in the Grateful Dead song “Scarlet Begonias,” which first appeared 50 years ago this week. It was featured on the 1974 release “From The Mars Hotel.”
The ballad as a whole is beautiful, but this particular melodic insight resonates with my own journey as a Catholic, a long, strange journey in which, as the song suggests, I often learn transcendent truths in the strangest places, from the most unlikely teachers.
No lesson has had a more odd time, and no instructor more unexpected, than my mini Bernedoodle, Sugaree. Deadheads (except my dad) will recognize that she’s named after another Dead song, but my dog and my dad have one thing in common: they both hate taking it easy.
I thought I had enough friends, but then a stranger did this to me on the flight home.
As a teenager, if I was slacking at home, my father would force me to do unpleasant real jobs, like cleaning out the garage, which took hours, or Sisyphean futzing jobs that took years, like hauling wheelbarrows of dirt to fill a giant ravine in the backyard.
My dog is equally perplexed when she finds me lying on the comfy couch in the living room. Though she’s not in a position to share the chores, Sugary has her own way of expressing her displeasure: She makes me toss her favorite drool-covered tennis ball so Sugary can pick it up.
This causes me to get up from the couch, switch gears, and go outside with her. Each time, for just a moment, she resists dropping it into my hand, still holding the ball in her mouth. When she does this, I chuckle to myself and wonder why she always resists like it’s the first time.
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Either she’s a budding pragmatist, who thinks that at that moment one tennis ball in her mouth is worth two in my hand, or she’s a healthy teleologist, who thinks the purpose of the toss is already accomplished. Either way, after a brief, dog-like moment of reflection, Sugarlee invariably lets the ball go.
In this way, she is confirming that surrendering her will to mine is the greater joy. There is a choice each time, but she is committed to making the right decision, and joy beyond imagination follows. As Mr. Hunter poetically urged the other day, I finally saw it right:
After years of gloating about my pug, I now realize I’ve been the bad guy. I love Sugaree, but not as perfectly as a human could. But despite my flaws, I believe Sugaree brings me happiness I can’t get on my own. In her daily leaps of faith, she drops the ball.
How easy the choice is for me. I am completely loved, not just by the one who loves me, but by love itself. My life is a series of opportunities to surrender and surrender my control to God’s will. Unlike my pet’s stubborn faith, I too often hold on and don’t trust the ball.
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The pleasures of this life are wonderful, but like the ball Sugary holds in her mouth before a great ball game, they are nothing compared to the pleasures of the next life. Sugary somehow understands the paradox of surrender that is at the heart of true and lasting happiness. It’s about time I did too.
I don’t know when the universe will next teach me a strange lesson, but until then, I’ll keep myself company with my dog who trusts me, reminds me to trust God wherever and whenever, and continue listening to the Grateful Dead.
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