I’m a dog person.
I’m actually an animal person.
Some see work, money for food, vet bills, lots of responsibility.
But I see something needing love, time, a purpose for their life. After all, it’s what the Lord asked of me—to look after, to care for.
We have this doggie door. It’s one Graham made years ago so our dogs could enter the basement whenever they want. They have beds down there. They have warmth. They have security, somewhere to call home. They have free reign to the outside world where they can dig and kill chipmunks and eat horse manure to their heart’s content. It’s a grand life, one most don’t have.
Still, at nighttime when the sun dips low and the sky grows dark I call them in. Down they go onto their beds, a rawhide tucked neatly into their jowls to chew and grind—sleep right around the corner. Another day of walks and adventures wait for tomorrow.
As I say goodnight, ready to lock up, clip that little doggie door so no midnight escapades take place, I get a bit of a sick feeling.
It’s silly really, this feeling I have.
Part of me doesn’t want to lock them in. In fact, many nights I’m guilty of leaving it unlocked. Just in case.
In case of what?
In case He comes. For me. For my family. The sound of trumpets and Jesus and twinkling eyes.
I want them to be able to get out. To run free. Find food. Survive.
While I giggle and grow red at my silly ways and thinking, part of me knows this is how the Lord made my heart. My eternal heart. I can’t help but think and wonder, when Lord? How Lord? How much longer Lord?
I sigh and think of those suffering. Really suffering. Those being persecuted for their beliefs. Those hurting and sad and continuously drug through this wringer called life.
Sometimes it’s my own suffering that makes me shudder. A life I once knew has been altered. Taken down a path that I wouldn’t have thought it could go. One with a husband whose memory is worse than my young kids, a person confused a lot and mostly unable to live outside the present. I oftentimes groan under the pressure, the sadness of missing parts of him still.
But lately it’s been that doggie door bringing me to a place where I’m reminded of my real home. The one with Jesus and that most amazing home He built. For me. For us.
Sometimes at night as I’m reaching for the door, yelling for the dogs to come out of the woods, dirt smeared on paws and noses, I smile. I smile with excitement. Anticipation. Readiness.
I tug on scrappy ears and rub one last time before morning. But just in case I’m not around come morning, I leave the clip dangling.
I leave it unlocked.
Just in case.