His Protection

Mom threw me out of the house when I was 9 years old in what I later came to find out was a full-blown mental breakdown, but not before she first got rid of my Henri.

Before that, she’d left me stranded overnight, languishing away in an airport terminal, which in hindsight should’ve been our family’s first clue that something was very wrong with my mother. That is not how things went though. Instead, Dad anxious to finally get on with life with his new wife, and extended family unsure of how to intervene, all quietly looked away once they received word from airport security that I’d finally been retrieved.

Mom arrived that night, or rather early the next morning looking a total mess. Wild and disheveled looking to my young eyes; presenting a confusing vision that ran counter to what I know she and I had both been taught. For you see, in our family on her side at least, strict training was handed down, generation to generation, that stressed among other things the need for proper attire and decorum no matter what the occasion, no matter the destination. But there was no way an unknowing airport worker, with whom I was left, could have possibly spotted the signs that something was amiss. She was merely there to take over and make sure no harm came to me, once the equally tired stewardess (yes, that’s what flight attendants were called back then) that I’d flown in with, announced after the first several hours that she could no longer wait with me.

The drive home was weird with mom talking non-stop in a strange, high-pitched voice that was becoming increasingly frantic with each mile, while I sat pressed against the passenger side door, trying to put as much distance between us that I could.

Life was hell from that point until the moment that I was thrown out like leftover trash. The only bright spot being my sweet dog Henri who was faithfully there for me in the in-between times.

I can still look back and remember his fluffy white hair, his red rimmed eyes that looked at me so lovingly and earnestly. I can still feel his warmth as he pressed his tiny frame closer to me – serving as my courageous protective shield during my mom’s rages – yet still giving me strength despite his and my own deep trembles.

Henri entered my life with a start, so I had no right to feel surprised when his physical departure was just as abrupt. She walked in one day with him completely out of the blue after talking briefly outside with a neighbor, and just like that he was mine. My friend and constant companion, who got all the hugs and snuggles that Mom was no longer giving.

Later, she never offered explanation as to why he was suddenly gone, why she returned home empty-handed from a trip to the corner store. A trip that she inexplicably insisted on having only him as her companion, while also inexplicably insisting that I stay home. She refused to talk about it other than to claim that my Henri ran off, and I was left shattered.

Perhaps having him as a witness in the house was the one thing that kept Mom tethered to reality, as once he left, she too was gone forever. Her mind went quickly from that point on, and I guess at some point my mama decided it was time to remove me from her life in much the same way she’d removed Henri.

The night it happened started off with her shoving me out the front door before I even had a chance to grab shoes and telling me to stay outside until she called me back in. My time with my mom ended for good that same night with her suddenly flying out that very same front door in a total rage – screaming at me to leave. None of it made sense, yet I remember that it’s that sweet dog I yearned for as I ran from my mom who was swinging a belt at my back as she yelled at me to go away.

I walked for hours that night, probably in circles around the nearby neighborhood as I tried to figure out what to do. All the while I imagined that my sweet brave doggy Henri was walking at my feet, ready to bark at a moment’s notice as a white unmarked van slowed as they drove by, and then turned around and slowly followed us until another car thankfully pulled into the same street, lighting up the block with bright headlights and giving us an opportunity to run. Later Henri and I slowly crept away and then ran together again to yet another street after coming upon an unruly pack of snarling, fighting, stray dogs. Finally, after many hours I made it to a safe space where kind people reached my grandparents in another state and just like that, I was back on another plane early the next day in borrowed clothes and hastily purchased shoes finally in route to safety.

So, this really isn’t just about my dog, nor is it only about my mama’s breakdown. It’s also about the God who loves us. The God who finds us in the midst of what could be our most horrifying tragedies if it weren’t for His swift intervention. It’s about His presence, in whatever form that may take. It’s about He who sends the right people, the right things or words or instincts, and yes - the right pets too, all encompassed as the right blessings at just the right times to get us through those moments we couldn’t possibly face alone.

How else to explain how a girl, not even 10 years old, barefoot, and scantily dressed, could walk the streets of Atlanta alone just before headlines started appearing exposing gory details of the infamous Atlanta Child Murders to the world . . . how else could that child, come out blessedly unscathed with a seed of faith so lovingly and firmly planted by the one who saves.

I still carry that faith, memories of my Henri, and His encompassing protection that all come together to accompany me wherever I might go.