Man’s best friend may turn out to be woman’s best friend, too. Last night a group of us walked to the beach for the sunset: Linnea, Adam and Skylar, Katy, Hans and Nicholas, and me. The sky was spectacular with unusual brilliance for November, and it proved to be perfect for silhouette photos.

We played around with a camera before succeeding, and in the process of taking pictures, I had my first experience being odd-man-out. Nate had never insisted on doing life exclusively as a couple but had given me a great deal of freedom within our marriage. I loved that about him. He’d encouraged me to do many things independently. I’d even seen many sunsets at this same beach with mobs of children but without him, although he always endorsed our going. This time, though, I really missed him. Being only half of a couple made me feel empty and incomplete.

Our big lummox of a dog, Captain Jack, was at the beach last night with us. He has been true-blue to me throughout our ordeal with pancreatic cancer, finding me wherever I was in the house, plunking down at my feet. In the days immediately after we learned of Nate’s death sentence, before Nate was able to fully accept it or talk about it, Jack understood.

That first evening, September 22, after Nate had gone to sleep for the night, the finality of the diagnosis engulfed me. There was no cure, no treatment that promised to slow the cancer’s growth and no way to avoid death. I was alone and found myself sobbing with my hands over my face.

Just then Jack quietly walked over to my chair and whimpered. I opened my eyes and found him gazing up at me, lovingly coming to my aid. His whimper might simply have been a take-me-on-a-walk request, but I chose to think he was empathizing with me. I slid down onto the floor, put my arms around his thick neck and boo-hoo-ed like a woman without hope, spilling tears all over his black fur.

A person can pour out her deepest disappointments and fears to a dog without inhibitions. Every secret, every doubt, every response to a crisis is safe with him. So after I had a long, blubbering cry, I cupped my hands around Jack’s handsome face and said, “If you could talk, I know you’d speak words of comfort and consolation, probably in a really low voice.”

Still looking right in my eyes, he gave a little wag as if to say, “That’s right.” Even though nothing had changed about Nate, I felt much better.

Last night at the sunset, it occurred to me that when all our family members have left Michigan and returned to their pre-cancer lives, I’ll be living alone for the first time since I was born. I’d been with my parents and siblings, then college roommates, apartment roommates, and finally marriage. At 64 years, it seemed late to be starting something so radically new, but God reminded me of something good. “You won’t be living alone. You’ll have Jack to talk to… and Me.”

As Nelson arrived at the beach with his camera phone, he happily took a picture of my buddy and me.
”A friend loves at all times.” (Proverbs 17:17)