Life goes on by the grace of God

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It started two months ago. I was folding laundry when I heard a noise -- a rustle and a scratching -- just outside the bedroom window.Granted, I'm not what you'd call a birder. Books are filled with all I don't know about birds. But it didn't take an Audubon to figure out a bird was building a nest on our roof.When I mentioned it to a friend (a retired teacher who knows a lot more than I do) she said she hoped it wasn't "roof rats" -- something I didn't know existed outside of horror films.Imagine my relief later to squint up at the rain gutter and see a mourning dove sitting in a messy pile of twigs.And so began my vigil. I was careful. I kept my distance. But I watched that nest the way a cat watches a gopher.One thing stumped me: Why was the dove always sitting on the nest? Didn't she ever get a break? Didn't she get hungry? Was she sending out for pizza when I wasn't around?Then I read, with mourning doves, the male and female take turns sitting on the nest.Turns? I have three children. I was pregnant for almost three years. In my next life, I want to be a mourning dove.I also read that the process -- from nest building to egg laying to hatching -- usually only takes a couple of weeks.As days passed, I began to worry. Why was it taking so long? Had something gone awry? Was the dove actually a clay pigeon that somebody (and I'm not saying who) had stuck up there to fool me?My husband seemed amused by my behavior. He questioned whether my "obsession" with the dove might stem from my own not-so-thinly disguised desire to have grandchildren.Well, duh. I'll take babies the way I take compliments: Any way I can get them. But I was losing hope for baby doves.This morning when I went out to check, one of the doves was sitting on the nest as usual, staring at me with his or her beady eye. Apparently, they hadn't given up. Why should I?I checked again after noon. No babies in sight. A few hours later, I was about to go out again when I was stopped cold by an e-mail from my sister-in-law. The news was not good.Satchmo -- their beloved old black Lab, who liked to trot about the house with a stuffed rabbit in his mouth -- had passed on to his reward.It was not unexpected. He'd been suffering from a brain tumor. But expecting a loss doesn't make it easier.My heart ached, not for Satchmo, who had the best life a dog could hope for, but for the family that loved him, especially Jack, my 12-year-old nephew, who lost not just his dog, but truly his best friend.I recalled Jack at my wedding three years ago, reading aloud from the Bible (I Corinthians 13, the "love" chapter) with Satchmo sitting at his feet.Then I remembered Tuffy, the sheltie my children grew up with. They thought he was their dog, but no, he was mine. Like Satchmo, Tuff had a brain tumor. I held him in my arms that day a dozen years ago and sang to him an old hymn while the vet put him to rest.I sang that hymn again today for Satchmo and his people: "All things bright and beautiful, all creatures great and small, all things wise and wonderful, the Lord God made them all."I sang it twice, every verse. I gave thanks for the gift of animals, especially Satchmo, and asked for comfort for those who loved him, especially Jack.Then I went out to check the nest and found two baby doves.Life goes on by the grace of God, and somehow, we go with it. And love never ends.(Sharon Randall can be contacted at P.O. Box 777394 Henderson NV 89077 or at www.sharonrandall.com.)