Blessing of the Animals, St. Francis

Good morning, friends, and welcome—two-legged and four-legged alike. There’s something about gathering together with our companions, our animals, that always feels so holy, doesn’t it? St. Francis called every creature his brother or sister, and if he were here today, I think he’d be very joyful at the sight—he would have delighted in each animal here with us today.

I want to start by sharing a little bit of my own heart today. This year, I’ve been a little tentative for this pet blessing service. I’ve been thinking about Hugo, my dog, who passed away in April. Hugo was the first dog that was truly mine—given to me by a boyfriend whom the dog FAR outlasted. Hugo was the dog I had no business getting, because I really had too much going on in my life. He was a rescue, a red and white viszla pittie mix, with incredible separation anxiety, and was NOT an easy dog for about the first 5 years of his life.

But, he also was the first creature that taught me how to slow down, how to prioritize the valuable things in life. When I moved across the country from my home for the first time, he was my companion. He was a running and exploring buddy, an occasional escape artist, he became the glue in a blended dog family when I met Thomas. He could always find a way to squeeze on my lap regardless of the size of chair I was sitting in. One of the biggest heartaches that I’m still wrapping my mind and my heart around, is that he passed away while we were out of town after Easter, and I didn’t get my chance to say goodbye. For a puppy who was a companion to me through so much transition in my life, I am still fairly grieved that I wasn’t with him as he transitioned.

When I was thinking about what to share today, I turned to a poem by my very favorite poet, Mary Oliver, Her Grave. Mary Oliver is known for poems that draw our hearts to the simple things around us, poems that invite us to pay attention, and poems about her beloved dogs. This particular poem is one about love and loss, about noticing the world in its full glory and its quiet endings. I want to share it with you here:

She would come back, dripping thick water, from the green bog.

She would fall at my feet, she would draw the black skin

from her gums, in a hideous and wonderful smile–

and I would rub my hands over her pricked ears and her

cunning elbows,and I would hug the barrel of her body, amazed at the unassuming

perfect arch of her neck.

It took four of us to carry her into the woods.

We did not think of music,

but, anyway, it began to rain

slowly.

Her wolfish, invitational, half-pounce.

Her great and lordly satisfaction at having chased something.

My great and lordly satisfaction at her splash

of happiness as she barged

through the pitch pines swiping my face with her

wild, slightly mossy tongue.

Does the hummingbird think he himself invented his crimson throat?

He is wiser than that, I think.

A dog lives fifteen years, if you’re lucky.

Do the cranes crying out in the high clouds

think it is all their own music?

A dog comes to you and lives with you in your own house, but you

do not therefore own her, as you do not own the rain, or the

trees, or the laws which pertain to them.

Does the bear wandering in the autumn up the side of the hill

think all by herself she has imagined the refuge and the refreshment

of her long slumber?

A dog can never tell you what she knows from the

smells of the world, but you know, watching her, that you know

almost nothing.

Does the water snake with his backbone of diamonds think

the black tunnel on the bank of the pond is a palaceof his own making?

She roved ahead of me through the fields, yet would come back, or

wait for me, or be somewhere.

Now she is buried under the pines.

Nor will I argue it, or pray for anything but modesty, and

not to be angry.

Through the trees is the sound of the wind, palavering

The smell of the pine needles, what is it but a taste

of the infallible energies?

How strong was her dark body!

How apt is her grave place.

How beautiful is her unshakable sleep.

Finally,

the slick mountains of love break

over us.

Oliver’s words remind me so deeply of the gift it is to have and know a pet. That we welcome pets into our lives, knowing most likely we will outlive them. And yet, the love they bring, the way they call us to pay attention to a world outside of ourselves, does not end with their absence. Hugo, and all of the pets we have lost, they are still with us—in memory, in story, in the shape of how we pay attention. Oliver’s words echo what St. Francis knew so well: noticing, paying attention, loving deeply. That’s the work of our hearts, in grief and in joy.

We gather today not only to bless our animals, but to practice this kind of attention. Our pets teach us how to live fully present: the over-excitement of a tail wag, the curiosity of a cat perched on a windowsill, the gentle warmth of a dog’s head on our lap. And when they die, they teach us how to hold love and loss in the same breath.

That is why we bless our animals today. We honor the gift of their lives, their presence, their love, and the way they have shaped us. And we are also acknowledging those we have lost. So in a few moments, I want to invite you to remember a pet who is no longer with you. You can say their name aloud, whisper it, or just hold them in your heart. If you brought a picture or a memento of this animal, and want to bring it up here to be blessed, please do so. I’ll name Hugo, and then I invite you to join me.

Thank you. Thank you for speaking, for remembering, for holding these beloved lives in your hearts. In that remembering, we see what St. Francis and Mary Oliver both teach us: every life matters, every life teaches us, and every loss carries the possibility of love that shapes us.

And as we remember, we also bless the animals who are here with us today. In blessing them, we name their sacredness. We recognize that joy, curiosity, and presence are gifts, and we offer gratitude for them. May they be safe. May they be loved. May they teach us, every day, what it means to notice, to be present, and to hold life and love with open