I was fortunate to spend most of my childhood at the feet of the Canine Theologian.
To be fair, my grandfather gained a Master of Divinity in the ordinary things and liked to wax poetic—often, and out loud. He was the reverend of open kitchen windows and rosebuds. He was the sacred keeper of sunsets and foggy mornings. He regularly participated in the tabernacle of porch swings, iced tea, and thick books. He loved the smell of cut grass and deep woods. He noticed beautiful things, and pointed them out. We became “noticers” for one simple reason—he taught us to notice. Perhaps his favorite ministry, always, of course, was the Church of the Four Paws.
Dogs were his favorite. Or maybe cats were. He taught us to love them all. As a family man, Poppaw spent most of his mornings on a walk with Tommy, the family dog—the two of them shooting the breeze and solving the world’s problems before the harshness of 8 am. He regularly referred to his cat, Leroy, as “the Reverend,” because the feline would hop on top of the weathered King James lying in his lap every morning. (Leroy made his protestations to the nickname clear every time with a loud yowl). Whenever my aunt came to visit, he would point at her dog’s head resting peacefully in her lap and say, “See there? He just wants to be with her. That’s his only desire. That’s how we should be.” Anytime I showed up at my parents house sans Kevin he would be quick to ask where my best friend was. Our little dog Simon was bestowed the duty of proofreading his devotionals and seemed to take it very seriously. So when I say I didn’t mean to be this giant cornball who learns these pat lessons from animals, I’m telling the truth. I was indoctrinated into their liturgy—I swear.
Enter Shadow, stage right.
Shadow was chosen for us by a kind shelter worker who helped us match temperaments. She was in rough shape. We can’t even guess at her past (dumped maybe?) but when she came to us she was about 20 pounds underweight, might have had puppies recently, her coat was dull and she just started treatment for full blown heart worm—a task I always swore that I would never take on. She earned her name by spending the first six months close at my heels throughout the house. When she was afraid, her eyebrows would shoot straight up. Somewhere along the way she became toy and food defensive, reactive on the leash, and terrified of strangers (due to my less than perfect training, she received a reckoning after snapping at my father in law). The trainer we worked with said she sees this a lot with dogs who have been taken from rural shelters to urban communities—hope was not lost, but we had our work cut out for us. I rolled up my sleeves...that’s when the lesson began.
With the heart worm treatment it was important that she be kept calm and disciplined. I’m not the dog whisperer by any means, so I started with the patterns that I know: a calm and steady voice, clear expectations, and routine. No big displays of praise. No overly affectionate behaviors. Just asking her for specific behaviors and rewarding her when she understood. ...and also a few incidents with shoes (oh lord, the shoes).
She caught on, and we learned new things to teach her. Eventually she was cleared from heart worm by the vet, and we celebrated with big treats and long walks. We avoided the struggle of separation anxiety; and thank the good Lord above and all his angels we did not have to even mess with potty training. It was going ok, until I noticed something. I shouldn’t have named her Shadow. I should have named her Eeyore.
It’s true that with time she learned her “spot” in the house and became sure that she would always have food and a warm place to sleep with us. But her tail never wagged. She would just sort of mope around the house and hang her head, staring at us out of the corner of her eye. The only thing she showed any affection for was food. I was puzzled. I had tried to to do everything right. Teasingly I would ask her, “do you like us yet?” She would stalk away and lay down on the couch.
It took a while to click, but it did. Poppaw never spoke to his animals this way. He always talked to them like he enjoyed their company. Like he actually liked them.
A radical concept, right?
And we do like her. Her favorite place is under our bed. She snores LOUDLY. When she chases something, she runs like a drunken giraffe. Her one true love is her food bowl. I’ve never, ever had to worry about her around children. If you scratch her butt, she starts dancing and jumping. If you ask her to do something she doesn’t want to do, she puts her paw on her face. She waits outside the bathroom when the door is closed, just in case I need any assistance. She is Blake’s number one fan, even though he pesters her mercilessly. She actually cocks her head when she’s listening to us, and it’s cute.
...It took a few months. I spoke to her in bright tones, became excited when she greeted me at the front door, gave her treats just because and made a point to play with her when her toys were out. I just treated her like I liked her, because I did. One day I got that tail wag. They gradually became exponential. It squished my little grandma heart that loves to heal things that have been hurt (read: a crippling hero complex and I need therapy). And I thought...we do all these things willingly for an animal, but are so reluctant to receive it ourselves.
Because God likes us, you know?
He enjoys us.
So many times we balk at this idea of God liking us because we fear that it’s selfish, or that it shifts everything to center on us. We hear a lot of things that I’m not saying. Sure, God loves us. He loves us by wanting what’s best for us. Love trumps like. Certainly a God who likes us is overly concerned with only our happiness and lives to please us. Liking us is a softer, fickle emotion that we don’t have use for. And so we don’t.
But a God who likes us in addition to loving us isn’t a God who necessarily takes all of our actions and holds them up, calling them good. It’s just that we are allowed to think He’s glad to see us. That’s it. It’s really that simple. It’s part of that whole grace thing.
We are allowed to think that God is the dad who would show up to your t-ball game.
We are allowed to think that God is the friend who isn’t too busy to come to your potluck, and by the way he’s bringing His favorite whatever.
We are allowed to think that God is the mom who puts your hair behind your ear when you are telling Her that your BFF is being a real jerk right now.
We are allowed to think that God is the one cranking the volume up in the car when your favorite song comes on.
I just feel like there’s room for that stuff in the mystery of the cosmos. And it’s not as if Scripture leaves it out.
We know the God who communed with Moses (Exodus 19).
We know the God who assured Martha that Mary was right where she needed to be, close to Him (Luke 10).
We know the God who was...seriously, just ALWAYS feeding people (Matthew 14, Matthew 15, John 21).
We know the God who invites Himself over for dinner (Luke 19).
We know the God we can boldly approach (Hebrews 4:16).
We know the God who literally REJOICES over Israel. With LOUD SINGING. (Zephaniah 3:17).
We know that God.
Sometimes we treat Him like the God of justice OR the God of truth OR the God of compassion Or the God of the Old Testament OR the God who does what’s best for us OR the God who wants us to die to ourselves OR the God of glory OR the God who likes us.
He’s all of ‘em, friends. He’s big. He’s “and.” There’s a reason why the name “Yahweh” literally translates to “breath.”
...We still have some work to do. But every once in a while, when I’m driving, I’ll look to the seat behind me and Shadow’s eyebrows are down. She’ll rest her head near the wooshing air and partake of the world going by. Her muscles will relax, and for a few minutes she’ll simply sit and enjoy herself.
I can almost see the Theologian now, pointing at her with long, knobby knuckles. “See there? She just wants to be here with us. That’s her only desire. That’s how we should be.”
