Send the dog, keep the grandson

“Grandpa, could mommy take the dog and I stay home?” The question came out of the darkness as we lay in his bed, closing off another day as we had every night for the last nine years.

It would be just a few weeks before he and his mother would move out and begin a new life in Vancouver. The packing was underway and shadows of boxes lurked in the corner of the room.

We were celebrating. A whole new family was about to be born. He would soon have a dad, and his mother would finally have a husband rather than parents to help raise her son. “For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and they will become one flesh” (Genesis 2:24). It’s the circle of life and it is very good. For years this had been a hope and even a dream. Now it was about to happen.

But behind the dream was a sobering reality. Yes, he would have a loving home to grow up in, but at nine, he was also leaving the only home he had ever known, the only neighbourhood he’d ever known, the only bedroom he’d ever known, and the only family he’d ever known – for a whole new, unknown life. “Why?” was the most obvious question.

When he posed it, I knew he had finally realized what was happening.

Not a bad idea, I thought to myself. Send the dog, keep the grandson.

Our kids had persuaded us to get the dog when our old one died. We thought we were done with dogs, but they insisted. Home would not be home without a dog. Of course, they would be off to college, but some things just needed to be. And besides, they’d still look after it.

Yeah, sure! Now they would all be gone and we would be stuck with the dog.

All things being equal, I would have gone for the proposal. But things weren’t equal.

“No, that won’t work. It’s best when a boy lives with his mommy. And besides, in Vancouver, you’ll have a dad, too.” He had already been testing “dad” language around the neighbourhood. “My dad and I . . .” was dropped into conversations with a very satisfying resonance.

But he wasn’t hanging out with the neighourhood gang at this moment; he was staring into a dark and unknowable future and asking his grandpa for help. This was his home, right? Why couldn’t he stay?

At times like this, it’s important not to become melodramatic. If change had to come, at least this one had no tragic impetus. It wasn’t being driven by sickness, or death, or divorce. Millions of children are wrested from their homes for these reasons and there’s no assurance they’re going to a place with hope or a future. Our change was coming from the best of all possible places. This was no calamity – the future was bound to be very good.

But he wouldn’t understand this. All he knew was he was leaving and he wanted to stay. And thinking about this when you’re being tucked into bed for the night is tough.

I had been thinking about this conversation from the moment we knew he was going to be born. I thought about it even as a permanent place for him was carving itself out in our family. He lived with no more foreshadowing of change than any of our children. But we did.

It’s tough when all this is going through your mind and the only words of genuine comfort are ones you can’t give. I gave all I had to offer – the product of ten years of wrestling.

“This will always be your home no matter where you live, just like it is for your mom and uncles. You will always have your place here. But when people grow up, we sometimes live in different houses.”

They weren’t just empty words. But they didn’t feel very comforting – and they weren’t. We can try to wipe away tears, but we can’t always stop them from flowing. And sometimes even those we love cry themselves to sleep. That was a tough night for me too.

A year has passed since he asked me that question. It’s been a very good year. But each time he comes home, I remember his question as we hug each other.

When I do, I wonder if that’s how God feels when he hears us cry.

James Toews is pastor at Neighbourhood Church, Nanaimo, B.C.