The same dynamic
that another day would never matter
It really just
depends on who's giving and who's receiving
And things that
don't make sense are always a little deceiving
Come and humble me
—River, Lights
My dogs and I walked down the stairs and boarded into my
car. Tails wagging, their eyes peeked
out the windows, ready for what they believed would be a day of fun.
But as we passed Shelby Farms, and as I missed that right
turn, I could tell the confusion had set in.
Excited yips turned into
questioning whimpers.
We arrived at the V-E-T.
Confusion turned into fear as they remember this visit
from previous years. Nothing fun was
about to happen. The sanitized floors
and counter-tops curled their tails in anxiety.
The morning grew worse as they were poked and
prodded. They couldn’t understand why
they were being put through pain, and I couldn’t say any words that would make
them understand.
When they took Cheeyo onto the table, I could see the
whites of his bulgy eyes. They tried
several times to draw blood without receiving any, and all I could imagine him
thinking was, “Why are they stabbing
me? Why is my mom standing there, doing
nothing, letting them hurt me?!”
It hurt my heart, and as they held him down, I placed my
hands on his head and tried to offer soothing words, knowing nothing I said
would make a difference.
At one point, he became so terrified he sought out the
hands that restrained him. With three
pairs of human hands on him, the grip of fear kept him from knowing whose
belonged to whom, and he bit down on me—the hands closest to him. In terror and an effort to retreat this
happened for several seconds. And all I
could do was continue to pet him through the anguish.
When it was all over, when their reports were received,
their vaccinations administered, I knew I had two healthy dogs coming home with
me.
As dogs, they have no idea why this has to happen. But me, the one who loves them, I know. Needles draw blood to be tested. Strange hands examine for abnormal joints and
growths. But all my beloved animals know
of this is discomfort and pain, unable to comprehend the reasoning behind the
seemed betrayal.
That’s how it is with God, I think. He hands us over, omnipotent, all knowing of
the paths of our lives, knowing that we’ll come back to Him better than before,
shaped by the happenings around us.
We have no idea why things happens, unable to see from
His perspective our lives and His plans.
The Cancer, the STD, the life that ended too soon, all
these are workings of a God much greater than us. If we live our days propelled to be more like
the God who sacrificed Himself for us, each troubled moment is a chance to live
closer to Him.
So much we don’t understand of God, because His ways are
not our ways. How many times does He
stand with us through something painful so that we may walk away healthier,
stronger? Maybe not always physically,
but hopefully spiritually. How often
does His hand stay over us even when we fight Him off? We don’t understand what we’re going through
as we’re going through it—we may not even understand it after we’re through it—but
He knows.
Sometimes God doesn’t take that right turn. And for good purpose. But it is to the Promised Land we’ll land,
and that’s knowledge we have that my dogs will never know. That as daughters and sons of the Almighty
King, He knows everything that could ever be known, and that His workings are
for our best.
We don’t know how God holds the kingdom in balance or why He moves a
chess piece at a crucial time; we might never see the results of his
sovereignty. But we can trust Him when
He says press on, cling to hope, stay the course. He is always at work, even if the entire
thread is hidden…I’m part of an elaborate tapestry that goes beyond my
perception. –Jen Hatmaker, 7
