There are people with pets and there are pet people. Anyone who knows me knows I am, indeed, a pet person. In my family, pets were always family members, children—more than just side characters in our day-to-day lives—taught best by my grandparents who always had six, seven or even eight dogs at a time. So in some ways, a profound love of animals feels inherent to my bloodline.

That’s why it was hard to say “no” the day Lucy barreled into our lives.

Though Eric and I already had two dogs, two ferrets and four cats at the time, we were fresh out of watching a dog rescue documentary, tears still on our faces, when I opened our back door to find a harnessed (but not leashed) hound, beaming with adventure, exhaustion and a deep joy on her face. It was evident from Day One that this girl loved to run. But she accepted our invitation to come inside and cool down.

It felt like a divine appointment in a way, but also insanity. We were at our capacity with pets; could we really bring another one into our family? But it turned out that Lucy was a foster dog from a shelter, whose foster dad had no intention of adopting her. So us being the pet people we were, we said “yes” and adopted Lucy.

Every dog has a unique personality, and they tend to find their person. Or maybe we as people find our dog and assume we’re their person. But Lucy and I, after those first few months, bonded tightly, in a way I hadn’t even bonded with our other two pups. And while I love words, I don’t quite have the vocabulary to describe Lucy well. As one of our dear friends once said, “She is someone you have to experience.” And she was. She was quirky, awkward, sassy and even demanding at times. But she was also so special, so sweet and so funny. For five years, she was the main character of our family dynamic.

All of that changed on April 12.

If a dog is a runner, as Lucy was, precautions always have to be taken. Secure leash or fence. Locked doors. Careful entry and exit. It becomes a force of habit to double check at all times. To keep the dog safe and secure. But one oversight and a gust of wind shifted everything. In the same way Lucy ran into our life, she ran out of it.

As soon as I noticed the door had blown open, I was after her. While I knew, to Lucy, it was a game of run and play, I also knew Charles Street was only moments away at her speed. Though I tried and tried to catch her, I couldn’t make it in time before I heard the car, the yelp and my scream.

There are some things you can’t unsee. Sounds you can’t unhear. And things you can’t undo. No matter how much you want to.

And as much as I wanted to rewind time to just minutes before, I instead found myself in the middle of Charles Street, holding my dog that that car left behind without even a split second of slowing down to check on her. Begging anyone who could hear me to help me lift her out of the road. Screaming for help from the person in the car in front of us, not understanding why they weren’t reacting. Or moving. Or helping. Though it was only a matter of moments, it felt like an eternity of aloneness in that road, until a man finally helped lift her out.

I wish I could say a miracle happened and Lucy made a recovery. But instead I get to carry the grief and loss of that day with me always. Left reeling in the aftermath of my own mistakes and the carelessness of others. How did I not realize the door was unlocked? How could someone hit her and not stop? How could someone else stop as though we were an inconvenience impeding traffic and not a desperate woman and her injured dog?

I remember Eric saying that he forgave the person who hit her right away. I also remember it taking me by surprise.

I wish I could say forgiving those people came as easily to me. Whoever hit Lucy. Whoever sat there in front of me while I held her and cried. Whoever I was in those moments of leaving a door unlocked. Unmonitored. Unnoticed. But nothing has tested my ability to forgive more than having to extend it to someone I’ve never met and probably never will.

The reach of grace seems to go much further for everyone else. I can understand the intention. I may get an apology. I can see the repentance. I can submit to the Lord’s call for us to forgive quickly and truly.

But here, I’ve found the process to be cyclical in the confines of grief. It rubs against me over and over and over. Whenever a wave of grief hits. Or I drive near Charles Street. Or I see a dog that looks like Lucy. Or maybe briefly forget that she’s even gone before I have to re-remember. So while I continue to grieve, I continue to forgive.

I can’t know if the person who hit her was a believer. If the person who sat in front of us in their car was a believer, stuck in unknowing how to respond. I can’t even know if they’re apologetic or repentant. Do they keep that day on loop, like I had to for weeks on end? Have they begged the Lord for forgiveness? Have they, too, felt like they can’t extend an apology in the way that I feel like I can’t ever ask for one?

But I’ve learned that forgiveness is always necessary even if it’s not always straightforward. And that I can’t wait for or expect an apology from someone in order to forgive them. Though there are still days my flesh may war against the anger, the sadness, the bitterness, the grief and the what ifs, I have actively made the decision to continue to release any bitterness that may sneak back up in the grieving process and continue to forgive those people. It is a collaboration with Jesus, rather than with them. It’s an act of looking inward and being willing to look at the bitterness that’s still there, at times infecting my ability to forgive.

The anger stage of grief seems to be the most frequent invitation to want to revoke my history of forgiveness. But I know it is worth the process, even if it means looking at parts of me that I fear don’t look like Jesus right away. And while I will always miss Lucy and may always feel a twinge in my spine at the intersection of Washington and Charles, I know each day provides a fresh scab over the wound that will one day evolve into a scar. One that allows me to confidently come before the Lord without having to ask him to lead me through this same act of forgiveness just one more time.