After walking past every painting and every statue, I finally found the museum behind a door next to the main altar, at the top of a spiral staircase. They sure like to hide the goods around here.
Some of His little clothes and one of His crowns were on display. He had about a hundred outfits, and a video showed the Carmelite sisters changing the clothes of the statue.
Searching for a book for Mom, I came across a history book written in English with a picture of the original image on the cover. As I flipped through the pages, I came across a famous passage associated with the image, one that Mom had read to me before: “The more you honor me, the more I will bless you. Occupy yourself with My interests, and I’ll occupy Myself with yours.”
Would He really? Was any of it real, or was Lorie right?
“Well, what a small world,” a lady in her late fifties said, touching my shoulder. “I’m from Georgia too.”
How did she know I was from Georgia? She must have sensed my confusion because she pointed at my chest.
“Oh, yes.” I smiled and realized I was wearing an old company hoodie.
“I live north of Atlanta, but my son is a preacher in Pine Mountain. I make it all the way to Columbus sometimes.”
“Wow, my parents live in Pine Mountain,” I said, a bit louder than I’d meant to and drawing the attention of two other groups in the little museum.
“Well, here let me give you a tract…” She trailed off, searching her purse for whatever a tract was. “Here you go.”
She handed me a church brochure. For Calvary Baptist Church. Seriously? I didn’t want to be rude, but half a chuckle escaped before I could act grown-up again.
“That’s my son.” She pointed to the handsome man with his gorgeous wife and three little girls in matching pastel dresses.
“Beautiful family.”
“You should go check it out one day.”
“I don’t live there anymore, but maybe one day when I go visit my folks.” I maintained my most polite smile and stuck the brochure inside the book I was about to purchase. “Thank you.”
She nodded and looked like she was going to say something more, but she didn’t. “Have a blessed day.”
“Thanks.” I watched her as she moved toward the spiral staircase. What was the mom of a Baptist preacher from Georgia doing at a Catholic Church in Prague? She looked back before going down, and we exchanged a smile and a nod. I could swear I saw her shake her head on the way down.
When I reached the Infant Jesus area again, she was there. Not praying, just looking around, and so I sat next to her. “I’m Ana.” I offered my right hand.
Her cool hand met mine. “Jackie.” She cocked her head.
“I didn’t mean to laugh upstairs. I hope you weren’t upset. It’s just that I live in Germany, and I got a brochure for a Calvary Baptist Church there. The coincidence made me laugh.”
“Why would I be upset?”
“Nothing.” I shrugged. “I saw you shake your head on the way down.”
“Oh, no.” She laughed a delicate laugh like a little girl playing with her little girlfriends. “Just puzzled, that’s all.”
“Puzzled?”
“I had no intention of coming here—today or ever. I was supposed to be spending the day in Karlovy Vary. Yesterday at lunch, I was going through my copy of Rick Steves’ Prague and the Czech Republic travel book, and the waiter pointed to the paragraph about this place, saying I should visit. I told him I had only one day left in my trip and already had a plan.”
A man photographing the statue brought a quick index finger to his lips as he walked past our pew.
Jackie nodded an apology before whispering closer to my ear, “In the afternoon, the tour company that was taking me to Karlovy Vary called saying they were overbooked and offered an earlier tour with a sister company. I accepted. This morning, the alarm didn’t go off, and I missed the tour.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. I should know better than to fight the Holy Spirit of God.” She raised her right hand to the heavens. “Praise the Lord, I always lose.”
She was completely at ease talking about these things, and I was jealous.
“But you are right, I did shake my head. I expected something big to happen here today. Maybe to tell someone about the Romans Road to salvation and lead someone in the sinner’s prayer. Instead, all I did was hand out a tract— something I do all the time anyway. But that’s okay too. Sometimes a tract is all it takes. The Lord knows best.”
What was she talking about? What was the Romans Road?
“I figured I would just sit here a while.” She looked around the church with a sigh. “Maybe someone else needs a tract.”
No, it’s me. I need the tract. I got up to squelch the thought that came against my will. “Well, thanks again. I’m sorry you missed your trip.”
“Maybe next time, dear.” Sadness clouded her features.
I moved to a pew in the back and opened the kneeler.
Thank you, Jesus, for not giving up on me and always bringing me back to Your house. Thank you for Claus and for dancing. Sorry if I can’t do better. Help me so I never hurt anyone again like I hurt Peter. Help me let go of the past and enjoy the future. Please hold my heart in Your hands. Amen. And I really wish You’d let Ms. Jackie go to Karlovy Vary, but like she said, I suppose You know best. Amen—again.
Lifting my head, I peeked over my folded hands. She was gone. I crossed myself and sat. Next to me, a tract marked a page within a New Testament from Calvary Baptist Church. I read the words in red:
MY GRACE IS SUFFICIENT FOR THEE: FOR MY STRENGTH IS MADE PERFECT IN WEAKNESS (2 CORINTHIANS 12).
That’s right. I’d showed up feeling weak and now felt better. I’d prayed, was thankful, said sorry, was sincere… Now I could carry on, right?
Outside the Church of Our Lady of Victory, a timid sun tried to shine through the thinning clouds. I unfolded a map I’d found in our hotel room, crossed Karmelitská Street in the Lesser Town of Prague, and walked in the direction of the river.
Chapter 15
We picked up Barysh from boarding as soon as we arrived back in Wiesbaden and were told he hadn’t eaten in two days.
The Hundehotel Jürgen veterinarian had checked him but hadn’t found anything wrong—other than old age—so they didn’t call us.
We took him to our regular vet, and she said his vitals were weaker than normal. “Maybe it is time to let go, yes?”
I’d heard that so many times that the words didn’t really have an impact on me anymore. But this was the first time I was hearing it from a professional. My lungs emptied. Was that the end of denial? Were our days together numbered?
Claus squeezed the edge of my shoulders, the gentle pressure keeping me together.
“We could help.” Dr. Joel’s voice was kind but matter-of-fact.
My words stuck around the lump in my throat. “We’ll just take him home.” Looking at Barysh, helpless on the exam table, I forced a smile. His slim and bony hips didn’t match the strong torso or the intensity of the get-me-away-from-the-vet expression. Nothing new there—he’d never liked vets. But one thing was new: a hint of affliction in his eyes.
Back at the apartment, I couldn’t get Barysh to eat anything either.
“Are you sure you want me to go?” Claus asked after getting us settled in the apartment.
“I’m sure.” While in Prague, I’d received an e-mail saying the Thunderbird had arrived. We’d planned to travel the ten hours to the North Sea port of Bremerhaven together to pick it up, but with Barysh not well, that was no longer a viable idea. Claus had arranged for a special power of attorney so he could handle the car situation for me.
“I’ll be home by dinnertime tomorrow,” he said before taking Barysh’s head into his hands and giving him little Eskimo kisses. “When I get back, we will take you on a picnic by the river—your favorite, yes?” He hugged his head and petted him.
My heart squee
zed at the sight. Please don’t die while Claus is gone.
Two days later, we finished moving my things to the suite and took Barysh to our Rüdesheim spot, as promised.
The ride and being back in the Thunderbird and by the river must have opened his appetite at last. He ate grilled chicken breast and fresh cheese from our salad and tried a fine German Riesling from the palm of my hand before scooting to the sunflower patch for a nap.
Summer was officially starting in three days, and the sunflowers were a foot taller than me and ready to bloom.
“I want to take some seeds home to plant at Mom’s.” My fingertips brushed against the brown center of the tallest sunflower.
“We will wait for the right season, and I’ll teach you to harvest.” Claus sat on our blanket and closed his eyes.
Joining him, I rested my head on his lap and watched a procession of milk-white clouds roll by to the rhythm of the lazy warm breeze as we reminisced about the trip to the Czech Republic.
When Barysh woke up, we had an improvised photo shoot. We took pictures of him among the sunflowers, of him with the Rhine, and of him in the middle of the vineyard as he sniffed tiny grapes that were still deep green and hard to the touch.
Claus grabbed the camera and motioned for me to get in the shot. He walked up the hill past us so he could frame the river and the sunflower patch in the photo too.
I rode home holding on to Barysh while enjoying the wind by his side. As I scratched his ears, he barked at the wind before looking at me. Is that a thank you? I smiled at my friend. Of course it is.
At night, Claus put Barysh on the bed with us to watch a movie. I had already framed the sunflower patch picture and placed it on the side table.
We started watching Last Holiday, and as Queen Latifah turned the Czech spa city of Karlovy Vary upside down, enjoying what she thought were the last days of her life, I remembered poor Ms. Jackie who didn’t get to go there.
My eyes abandoned the TV and rested on the New Testament she’d left for me and that now shared the table with the new picture frame. My grace is sufficient for thee, I’d read, not really sure what grace was—His or anybody’s. It was more than feeling at peace at a church, wasn’t it?
Whatever it was, I wanted it. Nothing had ever been sufficient for me in my life. Ballet achievements were never sufficient. Great boyfriends were not sufficient. Living in Europe was cool but not really sufficient. How could God’s grace be sufficient? That was a promise I had to look into.
I wanted something sufficient. And I had a feeling I’d need something sufficient to get me through saying goodbye to Barysh. He snuggled against my feet. Don’t die. Not yet. I tightened my lips, fighting back tears, and watched him drift off to sleep before turning my attention back to the movie and to Claus.
In the morning, Barysh didn’t wake up. He was warm in bed, looking as comfortable as ever, but nothing moved. I tried to pick up his head, but the limpness made me stop in dismay. That limpness came to define death to me who had known no death. It was like lifting a heavy comforter. There was nothing there.
He was gone.
Barysh was gone.
Claus woke up, his lips parting at the sight of us.
Tears were streaming down my face, but no words came out of my mouth. I lay next to Barysh, and ran my fingers through his thick fur, missing the feel of his rhythmic breathing. My hand touched his face and caressed his forehead as I longed for one more look into his sweet brown eyes.
Claus was busy around us. Was he asking me something? What was he saying? He knelt by the bed, his tears steady and quiet like mine. He held my hand and touched Barysh’s head to form a circle. And there we stayed for probably close to an hour, until I was able to say something and do something.
At first, I thought of arranging to cremate him so we could spread some of the ashes in Germany and some back home, but as soon as the thought crossed my mind, I knew it wasn’t right for us.
A burial in Germany didn’t make sense, but it felt right. Barysh would have liked a spot by the vines and the river, so Claus started making calls.
He found a small animal cemetery near Sankt Goar, an hour from Rüdesheim. The owners swore it would be there for years to come. Many of the little graves had been there for almost two hundred years.
We wrapped Barysh in a blanket like a baby, put him on the backseat of the Mercedes, and headed to the river again.
I stepped out of the car and went straight to the burial grounds. The place was well kept and the view beautiful, similar to the one from our picnic spot. I stood there clutching a small bag with some of Barysh’s things and remembered our many adventures.
My favorite ones of all were from our first months together. I smiled as I remembered when I started taking him to doggie daycare. His old family had just moved to Germany, and he was being destructive when I wasn’t home, so I wanted to find a way for him to let loose some of his energy.
The daycare had several shallow pools for the dogs to cool off, but Barysh didn’t care for the water. Any other dog would just have stayed away, but not my dog. He went to the muddy puddles his friends created when water splashed out of the pools, backed into it, and kicked mud on all the other dogs.
My favorite memory was from obedience training—or rather, disobedience training. We didn’t learn anything, couldn’t do anything, and were finally asked to drop out of the class. So what if he didn’t get the point of heeling? Quite frankly, I didn’t either.
Then there was the time he wouldn’t let me get out the door. He’d planted himself between me and the door and growled at me for the first and only time ever. Later that night, a police officer came by the building asking residents if we’d seen anything suspicious—two neighbors had reported a strange man roaming the hallways. Brave Barysh. Smart dog.
And now Germany. He’d been with me through so much. How could I ever get on without him?
Claus’ hand on my shoulder startled me. I turned around and noticed he’d been crying too. It was time. We walked toward Barysh’s tiny grave.
Barysh’s body looked fragile in Claus’ arms, and I touched the soft fur of his face one more time before placing a copy of our photo by his head and covering his face. My shoulders shook and my heart hurt, but he was so much better off now.
Claus eased the wrapped body into the grave, and I put his favorite yellow rubber football by his side before touching his body one last time.
The owners of the cemetery were helping with the burial. The wife handed Claus a giant sunflower—possibly the first to blossom on the Rhine that year. Claus placed it on Barysh and then grabbed the shovel.
Turning to look at the Rhine River below us, I smiled through my tears imagining his little soul chasing his yellow football like old times—freed from an old body that had quit suiting his active spirit a long time ago.
I looked at my copy of the picture. Barysh and I both had our noses toward bunches of tiny grapes with the sun shining on our faces. Beyond us, you could see the Thunderbird next to the sunflower patch with the Rhine glistening in the background.
Claus had finished and had his hand on my shoulder again. I looked at the grave and held his hand before walking to the car.
As we walked away, I whispered a little farewell wish, knowing the gentle afternoon breeze would carry it to my friend’s ears. “Run, Mikhail Baryshnikov. Run and dance and drink all the wine, my friend. I love you.”
My grace is sufficient for thee. What was it and why was it sufficient? I hadn’t forgotten the verse—I was going to read the book.
That night, I got on social media for the first time since I’d left the US.
My newsfeed was filled with ballet photos, ballet videos, magazine covers, and plants—lots and lots of plants—mostly from Mom. She knew I’d been planting both at Claus’ apartment and at my German teacher’s apartment, so she’d been all ideas.
At Claus’, I had planted eight trays of pink and white geraniums that contrasted with the dark ir
on of the terrace’s railing, and I’d used smaller pots to plant columbines, foxgloves, and hawthorns. Now I had a beautiful picture of Barysh surrounded by pots and flowers on the day we started the garden. Oh, Barysh. My eyes hurt as if they were going to implode or pop. Plants—focus on the plants.
In our garden, delicate white flowers I’d never seen before brightened the pinks and purples, and little evergreen trees and bushes brought a soft contrast to the space. I had planted the same for Frau Jöllenbeck, my teacher, but in a different color scheme: reds and yellows. The right vine, maybe a wisteria, would add height and dimension to my terrace—and hers—one day, but I hadn’t found the right plant yet. Mom had posted a couple of things that had potential. I’ll look it up later.
Barysh had loved the scent of the garden and lifted his head every time a strong breeze ruffled the plants, surrounding us with a warm perfume. My throat hurt too now. Focus.
I should call my parents to tell them about Barysh’s passing, but I didn’t have any energy left in me. I didn’t want to talk to anyone—not tonight. But they needed to know. Everyone needed to know that a devastating loss happened here in Germany today. My lips trembled and I wept as my fingers typed R.I.P BARYSH.
There. Then I turned off the computer and the phone, losing myself in my many memories—all I had left—of beloved Barysh.
Chapter 16
When I turned on the phone in the morning, I had two missed calls—one from my parents and one from Peter.
I talked to Mom, and I talked to Dad. They were heartbroken for me but relieved for Barysh.
Should I return Peter’s call? Nah … he must have called on impulse. He only tried once and didn’t leave a message. If he really wanted to talk, he would try again.
Mom had never asked about him again. Had she seen him since the time he’d acted weird?
After walking into the bedroom, I reached into a bottom drawer filled with out-of-season clothes. Under it all was the pink envelope with the Kenny Rogers CD and Peter’s note.
A Season to Dance Page 16