About a year and a half ago when I was looking at potential places to take my wandering self, I thought I had an idea of what was going to be coming up next. The path was beginning to clear and visions of free grad school loomed on the horizon. I gladly told my family and friends about how simple moving to Chicago would be and imagined myself quickly settling into a comfortable life. Surely things would be easier considering I would earn about three times as much money and be able to say I was in a “career” and not just a “service opportunity.”

Then, reality began to unfold. Sallie Mae was happy to see me move out from the loan repayment protection AmeriCorps offered me, and wasted no time in tracking me down. All of the benefits of living simply began to disappear as I was confronted with the realities of being the “face” of a university. Apparently it means I have to wear a shirt and tie and shave every day. Students wouldn’t be interested if a slightly scruffy guy in a polo and khakis told them about their potential future. High school students are so demanding.

And the ironing… oh sweet, sweet ironing. My mom laughs at me when I complain about it, but ironing on a daily basis just wears on my soul.

I think what all of this means is that I’m starting to become an adult. I’ve been roaming around this planet for a quarter of a century, and I’m just now starting to understand the meaning of some pretty important concepts. My faith is maturing to the point where I can read an entire scripture and begin to grasp that my selfishness has allowed me to get by with a very partial theology. Life is so much easier when I can brush past the trivial drama and begin to see the beauty and intricacies in my interactions with friends and strangers and the way that God can use anything for His glory. The way we all interweave and grow is an astonishing concept, but is an opportunity for an amazing community to form. Thankfully I’ve tapped into a community of people here in Chicago that has covered me in grace and laughter and celebration.

Too bad they’re all Bulls fans. They’re going to have their hearts broken when LeBron and the Cavs exact a little revenge for 1989′s Game 5. “The Shot” will simply fade off into memory. Next up is repairing the Browns and making up for “The Drive.”

The summer after my freshman year in high school, a week before I left for my first summer of CYF Camp, the family loaded into the van and drove to the Stalters’ to look at a litter of puppies we had been told about.  The Stalter family owned a purebred cocker spaniel that had managed to get knocked up, and they were looking for families to unload some of the illegitimate mutts on.  There was no way to tell what kind of dog the father was due to the wide range of puppies we found, but we eventually decided on a black and brown puppy that looked like it could have been part beagle.  We weren’t able to take her home yet, but the sadness of leaving my first summer of CYF Camp was quickly soothed by the fact that I would finally get to see our new addition to the family.

We finally agreed that Maggie would be a good name for our new puppy, and we all fell in love.  For the most part, she was kept in the laundry room, which would help with the potty training due to the laminate floor.  As she became house trained, she was allowed a little more freedom, even spending the night in my bedroom.  Maggie and I grew pretty attached, and she spent most of my high school years snuggling up against me every night.  When I went away to college, my mom would often tell me about how she would spend a lot of nights cuddling up with Maggie and crying.  When I would come home, I always knew that I would be greeted by Maggie and most likely the excitement would be too much for her.  My family quickly realized that they would have to let her out of the house to prevent stains on the carpet when I came home.

Even in the past couple of years as old age and arthritis began to set in, Maggie would still be there to greet me when I came home.  I almost feel like she was putting up a front for me, trying to keep her pain hidden.  At some point, she developed a growth on her neck that the vet claimed was just a harmless fatty tumor.  Just looking at her and listening to her breathe, you could tell her body was failing her.  The last time I was home, she snuggled herself up against me and I knew that it was going to be one of the last moments I spent with her.

Maggie became a very protective dog, barking like crazy whenever people would visit; I think it was the cocker spaniel in her.  My friend Glen would come over and bark back, something that eventually won Maggie over as well.  Her protectiveness soared to new heights the times I had a girl visit, with very few winning Maggie’s friendship.  The friendship could be bought at a cheap cost though, as long as you were willing to give up your pizza crust or a few Fruit Loops.  I know you’re not supposed to give dogs table scraps, but how could you resist those big brown eyes?

There was the time that we decided that we would take her out to my grandparents’ farm to see if she really did have enough beagle in her to go rabbit hunting.  She disapeared after the first shot and the rest of the morning was spent hunting for Maggie.  We thought she was gone, until my dad found her huddled in a thick stack of thorns.  Anytime hunters fired a gun in the woods behind our house, Maggie would find some place to hide, usually under the bed in my room.  A couple of years ago she was outside when a couple of hunters spooked her.  She disappeared for almost a week, showing up at the front door covered in dirt one morning, which gave my mom a chance to call me and wake me up with some great news.

There are so many more memories, all of which are just a little too much to handle right now.  It’s completely amazing to me how close we can attach ourselves to our pets.  I’m flying back to Ohio on Thursday for a wedding, and I know that when I walk through the door, there won’t be a panting, peeing dog to greet me.  I won’t hear her bark when I pull in the front drive, and I won’t get a chance to rub her belly when I leave on Sunday.  If I decide to chip golf balls in the field, I know I won’t have a lazy dog following me around.  My dad told me that a different vet said it was the growth on her neck that did eventually lead to the decision to have her put to sleep.  I keep thinking of her laying on the vet’s table, with my dad there, helping to keep her calm and see her off, and that’s when my eyes start to well up.  I know I’m being selfish, but if she could have waited just one more week, I could have been there too.  She was in so much pain, I keep telling myself, it’s better that they did the procedure when they did, but I need to stop thinking about it right now.

Anyway, she may not have been the most beautiful dog in the world, but we loved her.