This is our dog, Lucy.
Isn’t she adorable? She’s a Chihuahua-mix that we rescued in 2018. And this is what she does when she wants her belly rubbed… which is most of the time. When we start and then stop, she paws at the air for more. She lets Matt and I hold her in our arms like a baby. She loves to give kisses and smile and curl up between us on the bed. And consequently, I think she’s the softest, sweetest puppy there is.
Lucy also has severe anxieties. We’ve taken her to trainers and vets, and she’s making slow improvements, but she still experiences “fear aggression” around new people and other dogs. A strange knock on the door sends her into a frenzied panic – Who is it?! What do you want?! Why are you here?! Worry! Fear! Self-preservation! She barks and we silently (or not so silently) swear… and then spend several minutes trying to calm her down. This part is maddening.
I am truly amazed at the range of love and frustration I can feel for this tiny creature on any given day.
I actually talked about Lucy’s anxiety once in a sermon I gave in grad school. It was on Psalm 46:10, where God says, “Be still, and know that I am God!” I wondered if the desperate desire I have for Lucy to settle down and trust that I have things under control and that she will be fine is how God feels about me on a regular basis. And the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that that’s true. Turns out I might be just like my dog.
I’m a lot more needy and helpless than I like to admit. I crave security and belonging. I want to be hugged and loved and taken care of. And especially in this season—both communally, as we’re in the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic, and personally, as Matt and I are in limbo looking for jobs—I worry a lot about what’s coming next and what our future holds. I want to sit patiently in God’s lap, and I also panic at the absence of so many answers.
Obviously, there are some major issues with the metaphor here:
- I know my “belovedness” to God is far deeper and more unconditional than anything I could feel for a dog (even a cute one),
- I’d like to think my big concerns are more aligned with living a Christ-centered life than just panicking at whoever walks in the front door, and
- I don’t believe that God ever wants to secretly drop-kick me across the room like a fuzzy football when I’m throwing a fit.
But case in point: we’ve been living in Ellensburg for a year now. We moved into my parents’ house after we sold our condo in Seattle and wrapped up most of our classes at Fuller and SPU. We planned on staying for six months and building a tiny house. Long story short, God had other plans for us. No tiny house yet, no kids yet, and no jobs yet. And through it all, I am like Lucy: simultaneously relishing this safe, restful space and frantic to ward off all major fears and future concerns.
I worry about wasting time and where we’ll move and when we’ll have kids.
I worry about getting sick and paying bills and how long it’ll be before I can start my chaplaincy internship and be eligible for ordination.
I want peace of mind and stability, but also novelty and meaning.
It all feels messy and disorganized and out of my control.
Ironically (providentially?), I just read Matthew 6 the other morning where Jesus tells the crowds: “Can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life? … Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring enough worries of its own. Today’s trouble is enough for today.” It’s a hard pill to swallow, and I pray for it to be true in my life.
This isn’t a post where I wrap up with simple answers, though. I do believe that sanctification in Christ means moving toward greater trust and assurance, but I still feel a daily oscillation between “the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding” (Phil. 4:7) and “How long, O Lord!?” (Ps. 13:1).
I don't know what's coming next, or when. I hate having to sit in what feels like liminal space. But if there's anything this season has taught me, it's that sometimes life's lemons come at you quicker than a frightened Chihuahua off the living room couch and you just can't predict what comes next. Maybe for now it's enough to look at myself like I do at Lucy: with a small shake of the head, but a whole lot of love and grace, realizing that I've got a long way to go but I'm well taken care of and somehow... it'll all be okay in the end. (And if it's not okay, it's not the end.)