Do as Dog Does
Written by Larry Clooney
My dog spotted seagulls lazying around the park this morning, and she ran after them but stopped well short of posing any threats to the gulls. Years ago, I’d walk her, and she’d chase birds until she was out of breath and there were no longer any birds in sight. She’d be muddy but happy and proud. Whatever a dog’s smile is, she wore one; she never caught a bird, but I do believe they saw a threat in our Gidget.
That was then, over ten years ago. Now, with cataracts in both eyes, nearly zero hearing, and both legs greatly diminished from dislocations, all my proud dog can do is fake a threat, pretending to give chase. The birds, still far away, flew away, barely fazed by the limping and jogging figure.
But, in this, one must do as a dog does: she still turns to me with that same smile and tail wagging. Do we act the same way when we realize loss or diminishment?
What makes her smile and wag in the face of loss, many years past her glory days? First, she’s with me. She knows I always have my eye on her. Despite her cataracts, she still finds me and feels loved and safe. Next, she’s fulfilling her purpose. It may not seem a lot to us, walking the loop around a park, but she sniffs and marks her favorite spots, greets other dogs with her friendly nose, lets children pet her, growls at the shepherds and terriers, and always keeps her eye on me.
She also knows that after the walk, I’ll pick her up and put her in the seat next to me (her failed legs no longer allow the jump into the car) and return home, where there will be treats, water, and bowls of food. Then, and only then, she will nap for the rest of the day, one eye on me, hoping for another unexpected treat.
In her weakened and diminished state, she doesn’t seem to allow for loss to get the upper hand. I wonder if I have handled loss that gracefully. Something of a law inside me forms in loss and begins its lectures: “Pull it together,” “Fix this, now!” “This is what you get,” and “This is so you, now deal with it, or something worse will happen,” or my favorite, “Drink beet juice, or you’ll get cancer,” My dog can’t chase down a fat seagull but still smiles; I can’t ride my bike up a mountain any longer, and I am glumly singing “The End,” by the Doors.
This self-critical law shouts at me from a natural, often shameful or regretful, perspective. The “could have, should have, would have” mentality only knows my history and actions; it knows nothing of God’s perspective. I think I’m in charge of the ledger sheet of hurt and healing, pain and progress, happiness and sadness, loss and love, but when I put my trust in Christ, he took that responsibility from me, despite my looking over his shoulder with self-importance.
And the self-critic can even lecture me on my well-being and healing status, “Why aren’t you all the way healed? Get healed now, you sinful, unbelieving man.” Of course, the critic lectures me using talking points from my corrupt and weak mind, not God’s truth. It seems to leverage the pain of earlier loss and stirs up evil hornets that annoyingly buzz near me, wanting to harass me. Still, they’ll never acknowledge that God is sovereign, rules with mercy and grace, and heals and restores on his timeline.
But, what can we do with hornets buzzing, pain reverberating from some unknown and unresolved past loss, and our mind and senses screaming lies at us and wanting to lecture us, so the self-critic part of us can puff itself up at our expense?
“Come to me, you who are weary and burdened, for I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me because I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. (Matthew 11:28, 29)
God isn’t like our mean self-critic, and vice versa. What does a gentle person with a humble heart do? He listens, gets to the real issue, and encourages and promotes us. He doesn’t criticize, judge, or put pressure on us, nor does he prescribe improvement plans, business plans, or anything like that! He doesn’t coach us with book excerpts or demand that we list our top three daily priorities. He acknowledges our burden and commends us for carrying it so well, comes to us when we are hurt, and takes on our load.
I recently saw the movie Father Stu, and I liked it. It’s a true and tragic story; tragic except for the priest’s faith. At one point late in the story, after suffering humiliating loss and suffering, he began to preach, drooling over himself as he spoke from his wheelchair. He said, “This life, no matter how long it lasts, is only a momentary affliction preparing us for eternal glory. We should not pray for an easy life. We should pray for glory.” He pointed to the cross, the crucifix in the church, and said, “That man right there, you just got to let him in. He will do the heavy lifting.”
Remember the Cross. You are with God, and he has his eye on you. Look back at him following you; smile because he’s always with you. You may not be able to enjoy all of what you once had, but you’re fulfilling a task that God always knows more than you. He’s proud of you and will lift you in due time. God might restore everything while you’re still on the proverbial “loop around the park;” regardless, his promised glory is yours, so you have it all.
That was then, over ten years ago. Now, with cataracts in both eyes, nearly zero hearing, and both legs greatly diminished from dislocations, all my proud dog can do is fake a threat, pretending to give chase. The birds, still far away, flew away, barely fazed by the limping and jogging figure.
But, in this, one must do as a dog does: she still turns to me with that same smile and tail wagging. Do we act the same way when we realize loss or diminishment?
What makes her smile and wag in the face of loss, many years past her glory days? First, she’s with me. She knows I always have my eye on her. Despite her cataracts, she still finds me and feels loved and safe. Next, she’s fulfilling her purpose. It may not seem a lot to us, walking the loop around a park, but she sniffs and marks her favorite spots, greets other dogs with her friendly nose, lets children pet her, growls at the shepherds and terriers, and always keeps her eye on me.
She also knows that after the walk, I’ll pick her up and put her in the seat next to me (her failed legs no longer allow the jump into the car) and return home, where there will be treats, water, and bowls of food. Then, and only then, she will nap for the rest of the day, one eye on me, hoping for another unexpected treat.
In her weakened and diminished state, she doesn’t seem to allow for loss to get the upper hand. I wonder if I have handled loss that gracefully. Something of a law inside me forms in loss and begins its lectures: “Pull it together,” “Fix this, now!” “This is what you get,” and “This is so you, now deal with it, or something worse will happen,” or my favorite, “Drink beet juice, or you’ll get cancer,” My dog can’t chase down a fat seagull but still smiles; I can’t ride my bike up a mountain any longer, and I am glumly singing “The End,” by the Doors.
This self-critical law shouts at me from a natural, often shameful or regretful, perspective. The “could have, should have, would have” mentality only knows my history and actions; it knows nothing of God’s perspective. I think I’m in charge of the ledger sheet of hurt and healing, pain and progress, happiness and sadness, loss and love, but when I put my trust in Christ, he took that responsibility from me, despite my looking over his shoulder with self-importance.
And the self-critic can even lecture me on my well-being and healing status, “Why aren’t you all the way healed? Get healed now, you sinful, unbelieving man.” Of course, the critic lectures me using talking points from my corrupt and weak mind, not God’s truth. It seems to leverage the pain of earlier loss and stirs up evil hornets that annoyingly buzz near me, wanting to harass me. Still, they’ll never acknowledge that God is sovereign, rules with mercy and grace, and heals and restores on his timeline.
But, what can we do with hornets buzzing, pain reverberating from some unknown and unresolved past loss, and our mind and senses screaming lies at us and wanting to lecture us, so the self-critic part of us can puff itself up at our expense?
“Come to me, you who are weary and burdened, for I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me because I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. (Matthew 11:28, 29)
God isn’t like our mean self-critic, and vice versa. What does a gentle person with a humble heart do? He listens, gets to the real issue, and encourages and promotes us. He doesn’t criticize, judge, or put pressure on us, nor does he prescribe improvement plans, business plans, or anything like that! He doesn’t coach us with book excerpts or demand that we list our top three daily priorities. He acknowledges our burden and commends us for carrying it so well, comes to us when we are hurt, and takes on our load.
I recently saw the movie Father Stu, and I liked it. It’s a true and tragic story; tragic except for the priest’s faith. At one point late in the story, after suffering humiliating loss and suffering, he began to preach, drooling over himself as he spoke from his wheelchair. He said, “This life, no matter how long it lasts, is only a momentary affliction preparing us for eternal glory. We should not pray for an easy life. We should pray for glory.” He pointed to the cross, the crucifix in the church, and said, “That man right there, you just got to let him in. He will do the heavy lifting.”
Remember the Cross. You are with God, and he has his eye on you. Look back at him following you; smile because he’s always with you. You may not be able to enjoy all of what you once had, but you’re fulfilling a task that God always knows more than you. He’s proud of you and will lift you in due time. God might restore everything while you’re still on the proverbial “loop around the park;” regardless, his promised glory is yours, so you have it all.
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