by Kim Meeder
While she laughed, I followed up my statement. “In many ways, dogs really are smarter than people. I used to roll my eyes at statements like that until I realized that if the standard for comparison is nothing more than, say, forgiveness, it’s a done deal! Dogs know how to forgive and keep on forgiving. Man! Here I am a grownup, and in this area I’m still learning.”
Dogs know how to forgive and keep on forgiving
Laurie had become the sighted, two-legged student of a blind, four-legged teacher. Because of this new reality, she began to see her dog with a fresh perspective. Day after day, she watched in wonder at just how much alike they were in their blindness.
Laurie found she favored autumn for her walks with Mia. They would often take a well-liked trail along one of the waterways pouring through Central Oregon. Cast under a heavy morning frost a few weeks earlier, all creation plunged even deeper into the rich and earthy radiance of fall. Sedges reveled in golden apparel. Mountain ash enticed all with its kaleidoscope of color. Willows called out to join in the celebration of another passing season. Just as we might blow a kiss to our beloved, so too was autumn giving one last farewell before departing into winter’s rest.
On one of their daily walks, Laurie observed a pattern. Mia became so distracted that she would stray down a scent path and soon be far behind her master’s strolling pace. This seemed to happen for the same reason: Mia stopped heeding her master’s voice or presence. It wasn’t because Mia didn’t know or trust Laurie. Rather, she was diverted by the next new thing more captivating than her owner. She’d lag behind, nose to the ground, oblivious to her master’s commands. Laurie watched with sadness as Mia moved down one trail after another, drawn by her own curiosity. At least we’re still sort of together, she conceded. But Laurie’s methodical steps carried her forward, while Mia’s wandering steps carried her farther away.
Once the novelty of Mia’s diversion wore off, she would realize that Laurie was no longer next to her. Gripped by panic, Mia would run in frantic circles. Even though Laurie was still with her and still calling out directions, Mia’s hysteria overwhelmed her.
“Mia,” Laurie called, but her calm voice was not enough to soothe her dog.
Laurie walked back to her spinning dog, knelt down, and swept her into her arms. “You’re safe, my sweet girl. It’s okay, we’re okay. Everything’s all right.” Mia nearly climbed inside her jacket, and Laurie pulled her close and held her until she quieted.
From then on, Laurie understood that when Mia’s fear heightened into frenzy, she found no comfort in her owner’s scent, sound, or gentle guidance. The only thing that calmed Mia during such an episode was the security of her master’s arms.
At first, Laurie took great satisfaction in this tender process of reassurance. But after the third, fifth, tenth time, her joy eroded into raw irritation. When Laurie retraced one backward journey after another to collect her wayward dog, her impatience began to boil.
During one such frustrating march backward, Laurie fumed. Her throat burned with the desire to shout. How many times are you going to move away from me and then freak out because you think I have left you? How many times will I have to walk back and scoop you up before you simply learn to walk with me?
Her dog just didn’t get it. She kept bringing the same hardship upon herself all over again. Once more, Laurie knelt and hugged Mia against her chest. Then the truth pierced Laurie’s heart like a perfectly aimed arrow.
God has been asking me those same questions!
How many times will I have to walk back and scoop you up before you simply learn to walk with me?
Laurie saw how she had been running like her dog after every bright and shiny attraction. She too had been intent on experiencing the next new thing. She was the one who had willingly chosen to follow each fascinating temptation down one rabbit trail after another. And even though God was still with her, Laurie’s wandering steps had carried her away from his side.
Once she strayed from God and his light, panic soon followed. For much of her life, Laurie had been circling, crying out to him for help. All the old questions would arise out of her darkened heart. Where are you, God? Why can’t I hear you? Why have you abandoned me?
But God had been there all along. Like Mia, Laurie kept running past him. She was focused only on her present troubles, ignoring his voice and his presence. Unlike Laurie’s limited patience with Mia, God’s patience with her had lasted a lifetime.
God’s quiet voice filled her heart. I am right here with you. Still your heart, and you will hear my loving voice. Oh, my child, I would never abandon you. I will never leave you. I am as close to you as your breath. I will be with you forever.
Laurie hugged her girl. Still encircled in her arms, Mia licked Laurie’s chin. Her panting slowed into long, steady breaths.
“I mean, really!” I saw one of Laurie’s ski poles swing to the side, and I turned around just in time to see her throw both of them straight out. “Throughout my life, every time I was confused, troubled, or lost in uncertainty, God always came for me, caught me in his arms, and held me close. Looking back now, I see that there was not a time in my life when I cried out to God and he didn’t come for me.”
I am right here with you. Still your heart, and you will hear my loving voice.
Sliding to a stop, Laurie planted both of her poles and looked at me thoughtfully. “My sweet blind dog has helped me understand that in every sorrow, fear, and loneliness, whether I could see him or not, God has always been with me.”
Laurie and I glided down onto the shallow rim of the lake. I loved the view that lay before us. Todd Lake is long and narrow, and we had the privilege of standing on the south edge to look north over its entire frozen length. Cradled in a bowl at six thousand feet, the frozen tarn rested, bordered by a bowing forest of snow-laden trees. The high ridge that soared over the north shore was emblazoned by brilliant sunlight. So dazzling was the white crest that I squinted in response to the reflected radiance. I studied the masterpiece before me, not wishing to miss a single magnificent detail. Standing in such a kingdom of glorious beauty filled my soul with wonder, with peace, with thanksgiving. I took several deep breaths, drawing in the silent harmony.
Finally, succumbing to the need for words, I turned to Laurie. “Before we get started, there are a few things I need to share with you. For safety’s sake, I normally don’t ski on frozen water. Today, I’m going to make an exception since the banks are choked with fallen trees, and it would be a very slow trip if we attempted to ski around the lake through the tangle. I know this lake well, and the water frozen beneath us is less than two feet deep. If we were to break through, the combined depth of the ice and snow would not allow our skis to sink very far. Even though I believe it’s deeply frozen, ice is funny stuff and should never be trusted in the wilderness. It’s best never to ski on water, but if you must, only do so where you’re certain that it’s very shallow. Got it?”
“Got it!” Laurie emphasized her response with a decisive dip of her chin.
“Just a little tip from your Mama K.”
We laughed at my use of this endearment. It was the name Laurie had given me months earlier.
“Hey, I love your Mama K tips! They help keep me informed and alive out here. That’s a good thing! Alive is a good thing.”
As our laughter trailed off, I could sense that Laurie needed to express something. I chose to stand fast and wait for her words to come.
Wondering what our next move would be, Laurie glanced over at me. Seeing my expression, she instantly dropped her gaze to her boots. I allowed my eyes to journey back over the lake and waited. Still staring downward, Laurie began to kick the snow off the surface of her skis.
Without looking up, she said, “‘Try again’ has become one of the major themes of my life these days.” She continued to pop snow up with her skis.
“I’ve always thought trying again was a good thing,” I said. “You say that as if it’s a bad thing. What’s
up with that?”
I motioned for her to come beside me so we could get underway. The rhythmic swish, swish, swish of our skis filled the air as we glided through the powdery snow that draped the edge of the lake. We covered nearly the entire length of the frozen body of water, and Laurie was still locked in a vise of wordlessness. I feared she had lost her nerve, so I finally stopped and stared at her with a coaxing smile.
She moaned in full recognition that I was not going to let her bow out.
I persisted in my silent prompt and raised my eyebrows in the universal position of “Well?”
“Oh man! I was hoping you wouldn’t notice that I’m skipping this one.”
“No such luck, Lou!” I swung my pole around and clinked it against hers. “You know I love you too much for that.”
“Ohh-kay.” Her big sigh let me know she was preparing herself to step across the awaiting threshold.
“Okay … okay …” she mumbled as if thumbing through her own thoughts. “Okay, so I wanted God to show me his light. I wanted my own relationship with him, remember?”
“I do remember.”
“Even after making that decision, in honesty, I still wasn’t committed—not to God, not to anything. I asked God to show me his light, to lead me, but I still wasn’t relying on him. I knew that God could and even wanted to show me the way. And, in my head, I wanted it too, but in my heart and my actions, I still wanted my own way more. Deep inside, I knew my prayer to him hadn’t been completely earnest. It was another coin tossed in the heavenly fountain—a token to make me feel better, not become better.
“Although I told myself that I wanted to follow God, I didn’t want him bad enough to surrender my life to his leading. I prayed for God to lead me, yet nothing in my life, thoughts, or actions indicated that I actually wanted to follow him.”
Laurie stopped talking.
I skied on in silence, hoping to create an empty stage for Laurie to fill. Honest confrontations with oneself are often the most difficult confrontations of all. Moments passed, marked only by the soft sound of our skis gliding through the snow.
Honest confrontations with oneself are often the most difficult confrontations of all.
Laurie had retreated into the tracks behind me. From over my shoulder, I heard her clear her throat. “Every big and little thing that came my way still upset me, still completely derailed me. It was as if I was still looking for things to be angry about instead of looking for ways to resolve my problems. I had the opportunity to follow God, to walk in his light. Yet I was still choosing to walk my own way, to live in my hurt, longing, and frustration. I was not at peace. I was still wrestling. Sad, really, because I could have chosen well. I just didn’t.
“I was at home one night, waiting for my roommate to call me. We had made plans earlier to spend some time together. I waited hours for her to contact me. Throughout the evening, she didn’t return any of my phone calls. She was completely blowing me off, and I assumed that she had chosen instead to spend the time with another friend she valued more than me. When I finally accepted the fact that she had rejected me, I was just so hurt, confused, and mad. In that moment, I knew that all my fears about being unaccepted by this world were confirmed. In my broken state, I decided I was just done trying!”
Feeling cast aside, Laurie loaded Mia into her car and started driving east. She headed toward one of the most desolate places she knew. She didn’t want to see anyone. She just wanted to be alone. Driving through the night with Mia beside her, she had no destination, no plan, no agenda. Nothing filled her mind other than escape.
The night grew darker as Laurie drove away from civilization. Strong winds buffeted the High Desert. A blizzard was threatening. The full moon raced before the storm, dashing from a constant pursuit of clouds. Scattered snow blew across the road from the leading edge of the tempest.
Laurie knew there were no gas stations in this direction for nearly a hundred miles and drove as far as she dared. When she finally steered off the road and pulled her car to a stop, the full wrath of the storm had been unleashed. The turbulent weather escalated with Laurie’s emotions into a tangle of confusion and chaos.
I’m not ready to turn back. I’m not ready to go home … to face my roommate … to face my life.
The power of the wind rocked Laurie’s car. Inside, on the seat beside her, Mia lay fast asleep. Laurie sat in silence. If someone were to have peered through the car window, they would have seen that on the outside Laurie seemed peaceful, like the dog sleeping beside her. But on the inside, Laurie raged like the storm howling around her.
On the inside, Laurie raged like the storm howling around her.
In that moment, the flimsy layer of falsehood she’d chosen to hide behind her entire life finally collapsed. Laurie’s emotions came boiling out in a volcanic fury.
“I accused God! I spoke harshly to him. I blamed him for all my failures. All that was wrong in my life, I shoved upon him every hurtful thing that had ever happened to me. I didn’t stop for air. I just gushed out all that was burning in my soul before God.”
Laurie shouted, accused, and cried, purging all that was in her heart. Twenty minutes later, her fiery rant ended. There was nothing left to say. She had finally spoken the awful monsters she had kept alive in her heart for years.
Exhausted and nauseous from her emotional outpouring, Laurie sat in numb silence. Indignant, she waited for an answer from God. She looked up at the stormy night sky. Like a celestial stampede, the wind-driven clouds raced across the moon. Leaning her left elbow on the window ledge, Laurie rested her head in her palm. She looked across at her sleeping dog, lying nose to tail in a soft circle of white hair. The storm outside and the rage inside hadn’t disturbed Mia’s slumber.
You’re totally at peace in my presence, aren’t you, girl? No matter what’s going on around us, you still choose to rest. She reached over and ran her hand over Mia’s brow.
Then a small but firm voice spiraled from beyond the storm into her soul. Words from the Bible streamed through her mind, words Laurie had read earlier that day. The verse told about the angels who circle God’s throne and never cease worshiping him. Day and night they cry out, “Holy, holy, holy.”1
The angels’ only cry was to praise a holy God.
I’ve been crying out to God too, but my words have been far from holy. My words have been demanding, arrogant, selfish.
Laurie sat in hollow silence.
Slowly, a feeling blanketed her, an understanding, a warmth. She could sense comprehension filling her soul, a deep realization of just who it was she was addressing.
Her faults suddenly weighed heavily on her heart. What right did she have to bring accusations before a holy God? None. Even now, after her blistering outburst against him, all she felt in return was love. God’s love poured over her, drenching her parched soul with complete acceptance of who she was.
He did not reject her; he did not scold her. He chose only to embrace her. Against such love, Laurie had no defense.
Overwhelmed, her heart broke. What she should be giving him was her thankfulness. Devastated by shame, guilt, and sorrow, Laurie was consumed by uncontrollable sobs. Her face dropped into her hands, and tears poured through her fingers.
She grieved for all her arrogance and accusatory pride that had somehow made her feel justified to stand against the God she claimed to serve. She cried over every self-appointed roadblock. She mourned for every obstacle she’d set before God so that she wouldn’t have to live for him.
“God, you love me so completely despite these things,” Laurie whispered.
For so many years, I thought I was good enough, as good as the next person. But the truth is, I am simply a broken sinner, bowing before a loving and holy God. The only thing I should be expressing to God is gratitude.
The storm outside raged on, but the storm in Laurie’s heart began to subside. As her dog had already discovered, before a loving master, there is always a place to rest. Mia embodi
ed what her master could also choose: peace.
Without a word, I stopped skiing and reached for my friend. There in the snow, on the north end of Todd Lake, we embraced. Laurie’s body shook in silent remorse. After long moments of grieving, she began to rally. I released my friend and waited as she dried her face. During warmer months, this end of the lake was green and marshy, but now we stood in a meadow of pure white. One stunted, solitary tree knelt in the snow beside us. Bent under the weight of winter, it appeared to be praying for us. I smiled at the thought. Without a word, we began to stride once more.
True to her burgeoning courage, Laurie spoke again.
“I hadn’t talked to God, really talked to him, in a long time.” Her voice caught. “Earlier that day, when I read my Bible, it didn’t mean much to me. I remember putting my Bible down and feeling frustrated that even when I tried spending time with God, when I tried to understand, when I tried to straighten things out in my life, God still let me down—how dare he!
“I had asked him to help me and show me his light; shouldn’t he also make my life easier and more comfortable to bear? Since I had asked for his help, it didn’t seem like anything in my life had changed at all. So where’s the help? What’s the point? What’s the use?”
I looked back at Laurie and nodded slightly, letting her know I was with her, I was listening.
“So that night I drove out to the desert. The storm blew in, and I blew up … at God.”
Her voice was so choked with emotion that I could barely hear her.
“Then, when I finally fell silent, God came through the darkness and met with me. He came not with anger, condemnation, or judgment, but in complete tenderness. That night, right then, right there, I confessed. I confessed out loud in the storm that I am no longer my god. Jesus is.