Learning From a Dog's Life

Sometimes God uses the most unlikely things to teach me about myself.

Like a dog.

Our dog is a character, to say the least.  She is smart.  She knows the difference between "ball", "frisbee", "Kong", and generic "toy" (which is anything that is not ball, frisbee, or Kong).  We did not teach her that, at least not deliberately.  She knows that if we tell her to get her Kong, that means we're going out and leaving her at home.  She knows that when we put our snowpants on, that usually means we're taking her with us.

She is funny.  She regularly makes us laugh.  She can entertain herself for hours with a frisbee in the snow or in the water.  She attempts to carry sticks that are more like small trees.  She pounces on a ball and makes it bounce up into the air, only to catch it and shake it like it's a small rodent.  She races over hill and dale in the woods.  She embraces every moment, and is full of life and the joy of living.

She is determined.  If her ball rolls under a piece of furniture, she will stick her legs under the furniture to try to poke it out.  If that doesn't work, she will lie with her legs under the furniture, looking woeful, refusing to budge or be distracted by another toy.  She knows what she wants, and there's no changing her mind.

She is also strong-willed.  Maybe that comes with being smart and determined.  But she is very strong-willed.  I am not a perfect leader, but I am not a passive leader.  This dog is not allowed to do whatever she pleases.  But boy, does she want to.  Anyone who says that dogs don't talk back hasn't met our dog.  She will lie down when we tell her, and moan and groan as if we've asked her to lie down on hot coals.  She's like the kid who says, "I'm sitting still, but I'm wiggling my toes inside my shoes."  Her body might be lying down, but her heart certainly isn't.

It is hard for her to submit.  She might go two, three, four days calmly submitting, and then she must test again our authority.  Are we sure we've got things under control?  Are we really sure we can handle her?  Maybe she should be the boss after all.  And so we must once again take her face in our hands, wait until she looks us in the eyes, and convince her, "Yes, Tikvah, we're sure.  We are the boss.  You are the dog." 

I wonder sometimes why it's so hard for her to submit.  We walk her.  We feed her.  We buy her toys.  We play with her.  We love her.  Every good thing that she gets comes from our hand.  Even our asking her to submit to us is for her own good.  We know things that she does not.  We know that a dog that is allowed to do whatever she wants whenever she wants to quickly becomes a menace to other dogs, people, and herself.  So we curtail some of her natural instincts.  No, you may not chase that squirrel across the street into traffic.  No, you may not jump up on that old lady to say hi to her.  Yes, I know you hate the leash and would rather run free, but yes, I am still going to put you on it and expect you to walk politely beside me.

She thinks we're being mean, and she grumbles and complains.  We know better.  We know that submission is for her own good.  She is smart, but not so smart she can see complex cause and effect.  She does not understand the big picture.  In the end, she is still a dog, driven by instinct, and it is up to me as the human to set limits on her to keep her safe.  But I have to admit, there is something in me that admires her fighting spirit.  I wish she could have both --  the independence of free will and the wisdom to be responsible.  But that would be expecting her to be human instead of recognising that she is a dog.  And that, rather than being loving, would, in fact, be the height of cruelty.  She is not equipped to be human.  So I set limits, and I grieve that she struggles so against them when I know that they are for her own good.

And as I once again wrestle with this too-smart-for-her-own-good dog, I see myself.  I get so frustrated with her for the very things I do myself.  I know I know better than she does, but I fail to see that God knows better than me.  I see how unhelpful her do-or-die attitude is, but I am blind to it in myself. I know that she cannot see the big picture, yet I convince myself that somehow I can see God's picture.  I know that she is not capable of being free and responsible, that she is not able to play human, yet time and again, I try to play God.  And the worst part is, I expect him to let me.  I am no different than she is.  I fuss and I fight and I question him time and again.  Oh, days and weeks might go by where I willingly submit, but sooner or later, I question him again.  God, are you sure you've got this under control?  Are you really sure this is best?  Because I don't much like it, and I think maybe I know better here.  Maybe you should just let me be the boss of this one.  And when he resolutely refuses to let me have my own way, I might lie down on the outside, but I know my heart has not submitted.  My toes are wiggling in my shoes.

How it must grieve God.  He provides for all my needs.  He loves me.  Oh, I know how he loves me!  Every good gift that I receive has come from his faithful and loving hand.  How it must sadden him to have to take my face in his hands and wait until I look him in the eyes and then have to say to me yet again, "Yes, Marianne, I'm sure about this.  I am the boss.  You are the human."  He is far, far too good, and loves me far too much to ever inflict upon me the cruelty of allowing me to be god of my own life.  And the truth is, even though I am often a fool, I am wise enough to know that I really don't want him to.  I know that I truly am better off when he is the boss and I am the human.  Deep down, I know that I am not equipped to be God.  That's where I might have a slight edge over the dog.

We need to learn, Tikvah and I.  I'm not sure why it's so hard for her to submit.  I'm not sure why it's so hard for me.  What I do know is that if either of us are to be truly useful, if we are to reach our full potential, she to be the very best dog she can be (and that is great indeed) and me to be the very best human I can be, we need to accept the limits.  We need to let go of the do-or-die attitude, and to truly trust that the one, or the One who is in charge knows best and has our best interests at heart.

I also know this:  of the two of us, Tikvah and I, I have the better deal.  I have God as my boss.

The poor dog is stuck with me.

Strange New World

My world has shifted . . .

I have never experienced an actual earthquake, but I have gone through times when the world I thought I knew ceased to exist and I found myself in a strange new place that I did not know how to navigate.  It was like the ground had shaken underneath me, and I wasn't sure how to walk anymore.

The first time it happened was nearly 20 years ago.  My father had just been diagnosed with terminal cancer.  I was driving somewhere, and suddenly the thought crossed my mind that I was going to crash and die.  A second thought followed.  Don't be silly.  That kind of thing only happens to other people.  Followed by a third thought which struck me like a physical blow, so powerfully that I was nearly incapable of continuing to drive:  That's what you thought about cancer.

In that instant, the world I thought I knew ceased to exist.  My world was no longer a place where tragedy happened to "other people", but where tragedy happened to me.  It has taken years to learn to walk in that strange new world.  Life took on an urgency that it never used to have.  It is an ongoing process to learn to live as though today might be my last day, but to have the courage to love as though I have a lifetime ahead of me, even though I may not.

Disorientation . . .

Where am I?  Who am I?  What just happened there?  How do I move forward?  Why do I feel so lost?  It happens when I least expect it, in places where I least expect it.

Like driving down Highway 6 on a bright sunny summer day . . .
Or in a vet's clinic on Christmas night.

Marianne, why can't you just believe . . . ?

My life is all fire and spark and fight and grim determination.  I know nothing about willing submission.  I know nothing about resting in the hands of my God and looking up with trust into his face. 

So I wrestled and I pleaded with God for our dog.  I begged him to heal her.  I challenged him to heal her.  I cried and fought for her.  I did everything I knew to do to take care of her, and it was not enough.

I know about fighting.  I know all about the loud, in-your-face, toe-to-toe, eyeball-to-eyeball kind of power.  I know about looking for answers until you find them.  I get that.  I also know about being forced to surrender.   The stronger one wins.  The stronger one gets his way.  And I'm learning that with God, that's ok.  I'm always glad when he refuses to yield.    It is always a relief when he persists in taking my face in his hands, and asks me to look at him.  His hands are gentle.  I always see love.  I know that if God had allowed our dog to die that night, I would still be following him today.  I have no doubt about that.  I know that he is good, and that all that comes from his hand is goodness.

And still I fight.

But something happened that night.   My quest for answers was not enough.  My attempts to solve the problem got me nowhere.  In the end, I had to entrust our dog into the hands of someone who is bigger and stronger and knows a whole lot more about her inner workings than I do.

I expect power to be loud.  I expect the whirlwind, the fire, and the earthquake.  They terrify me, but that's what I expect.  I know how to deal with them.  But this?  This room in a vet clinic with quiet conversation?  This quiet, gentle moment?  This thing so simple it is hardly to be grasped?  There's nothing here to grab hold of, and yet, it just is, solid, and real and irrefutable.  Nothing but a still, small voice.  A whisper.  Marianne, stop fighting so.  Why can't you just believe?  You can trust this.  She's in good hands.  Let her go, and walk away.   It's going to be ok . . . .

So I did.  I chose to trust.  I left her in good hands.  I let her go.  I walked away.

And I watched as God did a miracle.

My world has shifted.  I'm not sure I know how to live without fighting.  I'm not sure I know how to live in a power that is so quiet and yet more powerful than anything I have ever known.  I'm not sure I know how to rest in the hands that hold me and not struggle.

But this is my new world.  I cannot go back.  I do not want to go back.  So I will need to learn . . .

Small

Father, I am so small.
Colossus-like, I try to bestride the world and leave my mark,
Only to find that I am a toddler
Lost in a world that makes no sense,
Out of which I cannot find my way,
And I sit down and cry
To be found.
Father, in my attempts to make myself big,
I forget that you are big,
So big that you must stoop to look down upon the heavens and the earth.
Father, shrink me until I am forced to look up
And trust your bigness
And be found.

Father, I am so weak.
Like Atlas, I try to carry the world on my shoulders,
Only to find that I am a cripple.
The weight of my responsibilities
Causes my legs to buckle and my back to bend and my heart to break.
I fall to my knees and cry
To be relieved.
Father, in my striving to be strong,
I forget that you are strong.
So strong that you hold the world in your hand like dust.
Father, crush me until I am forced to look up
And trust your strength
And stand.

Father, I am so foolish.
Like Icharus, I try to soar on my own strength,
Only to crash beneath the rubble of broken dreams,
Tangled in the chains of my own reasoning and knowledge.
Trapped, I lie on my face and cry
To be freed to fly.
Father, in my striving to be clever,
I forget that you are wise.
So wise that your thoughts are higher than sky-high.
Father, let me fall until I am forced to look up
And trust your wisdom,
And soar.

Father, let me fall.
Crush me.
Shrink me
If you must.
But, oh, Abba, be gentle.
Remember
That I am foolish,
And weak,
And very, very small.