Stray Dog in the World of the Spirit
By Renee Hixson
It was a rainy day. I needed to wash clothes, clean the house and prepare a lesson for Sunday school. But I just wanted to crawl in bed, pull the covers over my head and fall asleep. At least it would give me a little break from the crazy mess my life had become. No matter how hard I tried I could not keep the house clean enough for all the people that dropped by throughout the day, train my kids well enough to impress the congregation of the church where my husband worked, or network cleverly enough to fulfill my role as a pastor’s wife. I was a failure. That was all I would ever be.
“Mom, we got books overdue,” one of my kids tugged at my arm as I shoved a large plastic dump truck out of the way and picked a few dirty cereal bowls off the table, “Can we go to the library?”
“Why not,” I muttered and grabbed my coat. After leaving instructions to my oldest child to take care of his little brother we left the apartment and headed to the library.
“Somebody’s hurt,” my son gasped when the wail of a siren came from somewhere behind us. My son pressed his chest against his seatbelt to get a better look at the ambulance that raced by seconds later.
“They’ll be O.K., right?” He asked when the rescue vehicle disappeared into traffic. All he wanted to know was a medical prognosis for an unknown individual suffering from an unknown trauma for an unknown reason. My job was to provide the answer “yes” because I was Mom and somehow it was in my job description to make “everything beautiful”. Another failure. But, I had to try.
“If God cares for sparrows…” I sputtered in my best this-is-from-the-Holy-Bible-but-I-will-dumb-it-down-for-you voice, “You know…those…um…scrawny little birds that poop all over the sidewalk…he must really love every little boy and girl…”
In the middle of this pitiful theological dissertation my son pointed to a cluster of weathered apartment units complete with sagging swing sets and scattered toys.
“Look,” he squealed, “that sign says, ‘Pets Welcome’.”
I glanced at the two words carved on a wooden sign in front of the complex and braced for a passionate plea for a family pet. At least it would an easier conversation to maneuver than an inquiry into the medical state of an unknown person in speeding vehicle.
I was wrong.
“I am so glad,” my son said as the sign receded in the distance, “there is a place for pets that have no home.”
“Not…exactly,” I stalled as I scrambled for an answer that would not totally destroy his joy over the kindness of strangers in weathered apartment units, “It’s for pet owners who want to move in.”
Too late. My imagination was captivated. Tired, lonely pets lining up in front of the co-op for comfort and sustenance. Little puppies that’d been abandoned, cats on their own, maybe even a gerbil or two could wander by and find a welcoming shelter from the cold, cruel world.
“Wouldn’t mind checking one out for myself,” I thought as I pondered the mangy, flea bitten core of my being. I felt like a stray dog in the world of the spirit, even though I had an owner. God was my father. Where was He now?
I know. I know. The Sunday school teachers of my childhood adopted “God is everywhere,” as their battle cry while they fought for space in children’s minds to store eternal truth. I had witnessed enough flannel graph lessons to know that God was too big to huddle in the confines of a temple made of stone, wood or any other material. He swelled the ocean waves, echoed through the mountains and gently rustled through the meadows in the early morning sun.
My struggle was not with His omnipresence but with my unworthiness to be in His world. I was a shy kid growing up, practically invisible. As an adult, my peers looked right through me in search of friendship with people of consequence, movers and shakers in confusing world of spiritual greatness.
After dumping our overdue books off at the Public Library I drove back home. The chaos of a tiny apartment filled with three other kids had not disappeared but a brought something back with me, something tiny and precious. It was a glimmer of truth no bigger than a thought but I held on to it. I still hold onto it today. God delights in his children not because they are skinny, or clever or careful to follow all the rules. He loves the broken, the bruised and the strays. His love is untamed and unending. It takes my breath away.
Renee Hixson is a mom, wife, and former pastor’s kid. She’s currently on a journey making her way back to the truth and often finds direction in the innocence of her own children.
