as Grandpap says, Rosalie

My sister has a dog—a Chihuahua named Rosie. Rosie is very nearly pocket-sized and full of energy. But she hates walks.

When we were all living in Pennsylvania, Katlin and I would go out for our typical trek down to the clearing at the top of the hill that we always called “the end of the road”—it was, in ways: the end of the straightest part of the road, the end of the incline before the sharp and winding way back down to the rest of the world.

Katlin would step Rosie into her tiny harness and buckle on a leash. At first, Rosie would joyously jump towards the door, excited to go outside. Once she was out in the wide open, she would freeze. Her feet became cemented to the spot, legs bending as Katlin tried to pull her forward. She wouldn’t budge until Katlin either carried her or put her back inside.

Lately, I’ve been a lot like Rosie. I’m energetic and enthusiastic, but when I try to face the world all at once, I dig my feet into the dirt and refuse to move forward. I’m stubborn. I’m afraid. I’m such a little creature for such a big place, and who knows what’s out there?

Getting out of bed in the morning is the first challenge. We all do it—the fight for a few more seconds of eyes-closed, five-more-minutes, but-it’s-so-warm-and-cozy sleep. Sometimes I’m tired and lazy. Sometimes, I’m just worried—getting out of bed means time is moving forward, and that scares me more than anything. I was always so anxious and excited to begin my life, to be an adult, but sometimes, I wonder if all of this was worth it. How can I live what I always wanted my life to be when I don’t have Derek beside me? This wasn’t just my dream—it was our dream.

It sounds selfish—to be living in such a dream-world where things have fallen into place with a blessing beyond my own ability and still fight for the life I used to have.

Religion is another challenge. Sometimes it seems like a you-have-it-or-you-don’t type of deal. Sometimes I think I’m almost there; I can almost understand enough to form some sort of belief. Sometimes I stay put and think it would be a whole lot easier just to go back inside.

It’s an odd imbalance between what I think I want and what is. To submit to the leash and follow the trail seems impossible. It’s too easy. Nothing is ever so simple. Nothing comes without consequence. If I take those first few steps, where will they lead? How can I trust that the One holding the leash will love me through my stubbornness; will call my name when I do not want to leave my bed; will force me into the future, even if it means carrying me the whole way?

When Katlin carries Rosie where she doesn’t want to go, Rosie shakes and gives little squeaks, holding herself close to Katlin’s chest and watching her surroundings, wide-eyed. But even through her fear, she does not run from my sister’s open arms.