God Will Send a Moses (Part 3 of 4)

September arrived carrying both hope and heaviness. My amazing obedience trainer and friend, Denise, encouraged me to attend the Golden Retriever National in St. Louis, and I knew I needed to breathe—really breathe. So, I went. I watched, learned, took notes, and filled my mind with something I hadn’t felt in a while: structure and purpose.

For a moment, I felt lighter. But grief and stress hovered close behind.

On the drive home, the phone rang—my mom was in the ER.

By Monday, the weight of everything pressed in from all sides: family chaos, emotional exhaustion, worry for my mom, and watching Mabel continue to decline. And yet, even in that fog, Kingdom Comfort Dogs remained my quiet anchor—a gentle reminder of hope.

Between my growing list of puppy criteria and everything I absorbed at the Golden Retriever National, my mind was spiraling. And because my friend and training compadre, Laurie, had just gotten a puppy, I reached out to ask about her breeders—mostly to occupy my brain with something manageable. She responded with a flood of information, which I welcomed as a distraction.

Within minutes I thought, I’m going to need a spreadsheet to keep all of this straight.

Then Tuesday night, Mabel worsened. Still, she climbed the stairs to sleep with us—her final gift of comfort.

Sigh.

By Wednesday morning, she couldn’t stand.

I made the appointment.

I had a telehealth counseling session scheduled that day—a lifeline meant to help me process everything I’d been carrying. The timing felt almost orchestrated. During the session began, a message from Laurie popped up:

“Call me when you can.”

I knew. I knew it was about a puppy. And I wasn’t ready or I didn’t think I was ready.

Just like the biblical Moses appearing in the river during Israel’s darkest hour… hope was appearing in mine.

Laurie told me about a puppy from a litter I previously watched on Facebook. A puppy who had already been placed, but whose situation had suddenly changed. A puppy who unexpectedly needed a new direction.

But before any thought of that could take root, I had to say goodbye to Mabel.

Joey and I held her as she passed. Grief swallowed us whole.

And yet within that grief—on that very same day—God cracked open a window of hope. A quiet reminder that endings aren’t the end.

That comfort was coming.
That purpose was shifting.
That hope still had breath.

Hope and heartbreak in the same week.

Sandy