IT IS HARD

I know what you’re thinking.

No way. There is no way those idiots got another dog.

You, my wise, young friend, would be wrong. We did indeed get another dog, because, you know, we hate ourselves. Or perhaps, and I‘m leaning this way, it is just me that my family hates.

You see, I did not want this little bundle of joy and explosive poop. In fact, I begged and pleaded for just a second’s pause, a brief reconsideration, an examination and reminder that we already have THREE dogs.

Cleary, my persuasive arguments are unparalleled. We got the dog, the dog I didn’t want, and now guess who is stuck with the dog?

Oh wait, it’s me! I’m the one with a puppy in her bed, one of my biggest nightmares come to life. I’m the one who cleaned up not one, not two, but three different forms of bodily fluids on just Tuesday alone. I’m the one who is forced to save the, let’s go with a kind word and say ditzy, the ditzy dog’s life when she repeatedly attempts to get the World’s Oldest Dog to play with her.

Go ahead, go ahead and say it. Puppy Hater. Crusher of Dreams. Stick in the Mud. I’ve heard it all. Well, not heard it, because my anger and rage and bitterness have scared my family into silence and a shower of compliments, but I’ve seen the truth in their eyes. I have become a monster.

But, I mean, kind of a justified monster, right?

Tuesday Night, or The Day of Many Liquids, as I like to call it, I reached my wits end. I know, I thought the third time on my hands and knees wiping up urine, or perhaps the eightieth time the end of my braid was mistaken for a rope was my wits end, but apparently, it had just a little bit more to go. I was simmering, I was infuriated, I was plotting various forms or revenge, and I was trying desperately not to cry again.

It wasn’t working.

Glaring at the white ball of fluff lounging at the end of the bed, resting herself so she could awake me at three in the morning for a rousing game of Russian Roulette with my fingers, I forced myself to pray. Needles to say, I wasn’t *exaclty* feeling the most grateful in that moment, so I doubted my words to heaven would contain the reverence they needed. Biting, perhaps, and maybe a little fiery were the adjectives coming to mind, but not appreciative or regretful.

Except, of course, for not taking my grandmother up on her offer to come and stay with her again. I believe, for the rest of my life in fact, I will be kicking myself for that poor decision.

Folding my arms and glowering at the ceiling, I summed up what the past two days, but in reality, the past three weeks had felt like.

“This is hard.”

You know, I think my favorite way I hear my Father in Heaven speak to me is through prayer. When I feel His words, almost audibly, inside my own head, I get the sense that I truly know Him. I can feel his Fatherly love, perfectly mixed with concern, compassion, and a touch of humor. Each time I hear Him, I am reminded of just how much worth I am, because a being that incredible would take the time to talk to me, individually and uniquely. Getting a better grasp of who He is, and in turn, who I am, almost makes the trials worth it.

Almost.

Still glaring at the bane of my existence snoozing on my comforter, I felt Him speak to me, and those tears went from unshed, to shed, real fast.

“It is hard.”

I cannot begin to explain to you what those words meant to me in that moment. How much I needed them, and the weight and validity they carried straight to my heart.

Now, I must interject that my family had made similar statements. Feeling guilty, and probably a little terrified, they constantly reassured me that I was doing enough, that it was going to get better, and of course, that they owed me for life. (don’t worry, already working on getting that in writing.) But, I don’t know. It was different coming from Him.

My Savior, the person who had suffered every possible bad time this world has to offer, and my Father in Heaven, who witnessed said bad times, acknowledged that what I was facing was hard. They didn’t try to make comparisons to others’ problems, as I often do, or tell me to toughen up, as some members of my family who will not be named might have done. Instead, they acknowledged my feelings (I mean, at least the ones that weren’t murderous), and then, then They did something even more miraculous.

They gave me strength. They gave me hope. They gave this Negative (N)ellie some much-needed positivity. They gave me love. Love for Them, love for the puppy, and love for the evil, slightly-insane family members who placed me in this position. They changed me through my horrible, barely-a-sentence prayer. They told me I could do this, and because of Their love and Their words and Their inability to speak anything but the truth, I believe them.

So, to you, my dear reader, whatever the “puppy” is in your life, let’s just take a second to acknowledge it.

“It is hard.”

It’s hard ok? You are going through a difficult time. It may not seem challenging to others, and they may think you need to toughen up and just see it through, and maybe you do. But, none of that, none of that changes the fact that life is hard sometimes. The seasons we go through can knock us down with such force, that it seems impossible to get up. It‘s hard, but you can do it. I promise you, you can. They know it, I know it, even the dumb blonde at my feet knows it, because despite the obvious threat on her life, she continues to push my buttons.

This too shall pass. It always does, it always will, and They will always be by your side, through it all. Trust Them, believe Them, lean on Them, and know They speak the truth when They say:

“This is hard, but you can do it.”