Angie Metz4 Comments

What My Dog Taught Me About God

Angie Metz4 Comments
What My Dog Taught Me About God

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I'm so excited to introduce my dear friend, Angie Metz. I met Ang in Seminary and we instantly became lifelong friends.  Angie is a rare soul, she speaks truth and lives it. You cannot be in her presence without being inspired. I have the privilege of co-authoring Anchor & Plume with her which you can check out here.  A lover of beauty, her words today offer a beautiful picture of the love God has for us.

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Something was wrong. I could feel it. I had let our nine year old Weimaraner, Miles, outside forty five minutes ago. He should have been back by now.

We live in the country, just a few miles from our small town. Without fences, and with plenty of space to run, Miles investigates the wild edges of our little corner of the world. Deer, rabbit, opossum all leave their delightful scent about the place. He explores, traces and tracks, and then he’s ready to be back with our pack, together again.

I got soapy kids rinsed off and jammied and tucked into bed but still, Miles was nowhere to be found. I stood out under the Big Dipper of the hot, July sky, calling his name. Only leftover fireworks replied.
My husband and uncle set out with flashlights and combed through shoulder-high cornfields, calling, listening, but returned home with nothing. I slept fitfully on the couch that night, the garage cracked open, hoping to be awakened at any point by his scratching at the door.

The next day when Miles still had not returned, we sent a picture and a “lost dog” plea to our local Facebook news community. Not one to typically post items of personal angst, I decided I will be a fool for that dog. We had no idea where he was or how he was being treated. Was he hurt? Was he scared? We were desperate to find him and bring him home.

Our Facebook post was shared over 350 times. It was crazy to us – people all over town looking and praying – for our lost dog. Complete strangers were scanning their routes on the way to work and the store leaving messages about possible sightings and spreading word to their friends. It was humbling to see people unconnected to us band in care together - without hook or expectation of reciprocation – just reacting with compassionate action for us and our family pet.

It was Monday morning, 36 hours after he’d been missing, when we received a message – Miles had been found. A man, just clocked off his night shift, changed his routine and decided to drive home a different way that day. And he just happened to see a Weimaraner, darkened with mud and who-knows-what limping along the roadside. He won’t let me close to him, but I’ll stay with him until you get here.

I tossed three kids into the car and left. It didn’t matter that we hadn’t brushed our hair, that we hadn’t finished breakfast or changed out of our pajamas yet. It didn’t matter that we didn’t know what state Miles would be in when we got there. Only one thing mattered – our lost dog was coming home.

When something you love is missing, you don’t rest until it’s found. And when it’s found you don’t care how it smells or what its covered in, you run for it and wrap your arms around it because it was lost and it’s been returned to you. You don’t care where it’s been or why it left, you just scoop it up and take it home because it’s weak and beat up and can’t figure out how to get back on its own. And you don’t care what it may cost or what the final bill may be, you make sure it gets the attention it needs to mend.

You cannot help yourself, really. You run and carry and care for because your heart is overflowing – you’ve been gifted with the most precious thing of all – more time.

And it strikes me deep in the place where bones quake – if I felt this way about my missing dog, then how much more does Love, Himself, feel toward us? How much farther would He go to look for us, sleeping fitfully on a heavenly couch until He knew we were home, safe and cared for by His own gentle hands.
We are loved and traced and looked for. We are missed and ached over. And he doesn’t rest until we’re home.