Inmate #K9

"For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, "Plans to prosper you, and not to harm you. Plans to give you hope and a future." Jeremiah 29:11

So, my dog Suki is a receptacle for genetically poor canine parts: bad back, knees, skin, ears. She has been paralyzed four times in her short life and eventually had to have emergency spinal surgery several years ago. Afterwards, her surgeon prescribed six weeks of recovery in a crate. I put it in the corner of the living room so she would be close enough to keep an eye on as the sentence countdown started.

I sat on the couch across from her and tried to watch television. But she would whimper. She would pout. She would squish her wet little nose between the metal bars of the crate, causing the air to whistle through her nostrils as she breathed forcefully in and out, obviously a plea for my attention. Her beautiful brown eyes seemed to enlarge exponentially as she looked up at me sadly, confused and wondering, “Why are you doing this to me? Do you hate me? What have I done to deserve this?” And my bleeding heart would break in two knowing that I couldn't make her happy.

Her confusion and anger at me was obvious. But while I felt badly, I was willing to risk it because I loved her so much, more than she could ever fathom. And from my higher vantage point, I could see that keeping her locked up was the only way she would be safe. I knew it was the only place that she could heal. I knew it was the difference between life and death. I also knew she would never understand any of this and might always feel some resentment towards me. I took my heavy heart away from her desperate gaze and went to PetSmart (doggie heaven), where I stocked up on bags of treats for now and squeaky toys for the future, each item’s beep on the register’s scanner removing a brick from the wall of guilt laid across my chest.

As I rolled my goods back into the parking lot, wrestling with my emotions (as well as a shopping cart with one stuck wheel), I thought how God must often find himself in this same position. How when we, as humans, are thrown into some kind of "situational prison" – breaking up, getting fired, losing a loved one, etc. - we stick our figurative noses through our metaphorical crates, lips pouting, nostrils whistling, and we look up at God with our big, questioning eyes, crying out in confusion, "What are we doing here?!" and asking why He doesn't love us anymore. But God, in his unbiased omniscience, knows it is exactly where we have to be.

I think that when God reaches out to soothe us in our times of sadness and confusion, frequently we bite the hand that feeds us. We yank away angrily, withdrawing further into our cells to lick our wounds, to self-protect and take control of the little we imagine we have left. And in doing so, we cut God (and His peace) out of the picture. I bet as He watches us process our hurt and fury all by our lonesome, He would love to yell down to us, “I know you don’t understand this sweetie, but it’s ok, I’ve got you! Everything is how is has to be. It will all work out in the end. Stop worrying and trust me!”

But instead God, the gentleman He is, gives us the space we demand. I find He often seems eerily silent during this time, simply absorbing the angry attacks that mask my disappointment until I (hopefully) tire of swinging. And I imagine He fully comprehends the magnitude of risk that we might never stop throwing punches, that we might forever hold a grudge against Him because of how much we, as humans, despise being in situations of confusion and vulnerability; and because many times when we are hurt deeply, we find it difficult to recover - to get our eyes off ourselves and our injuries and back on to God.

But as they say, God cares more about our character than our comfort and He cares more about our holiness than our happiness. He knows it has to be just this way in order to save us from ourselves and allow for the fruition of His perfect plans. And so He is willing to risk it all because His love for us has no limit, His passion for us knows no bounds.

So, when I am feeling doubtful and pitiful and angry with God, I begin to mentally picture myself in Suki’s doggie prison, pouting and sighing and clinking my tin mug up and down the metal bars that enclose me and it makes me laugh because I realize, so obviously, that I am merely seeing a miniscule part of a much bigger picture.