Dog-like faith

 We just got back from a four-day trip to my parents' house for Christmas. We had to leave the dogs with my in-laws, and it was a bit of a mixed bag for them. Natalie, our older, smaller one, got the VIP treatment inside the house. But Ruby—who is younger and, let’s just say, "spirited"—had to spend most of her time on a lead outside, only coming in to sleep in her own space at night.

When we finally pulled in, the reunion was intense. But it was the next morning that really wrecked me.

Because Ruby is so rambunctious (and because we value actual sleep), we have to close her out of our bedroom at night. At 6:00 AM, we woke up to her crying in the living room. Not barking at a squirrel, but crying. A deep, soulful whine.

When I opened the bedroom door, she didn't just wag her tail. She practically exploded. I was immediately bathed in saliva, and once she calmed down enough to lay on the bed, she physically pinned us down. She used her weight to make sure we weren’t going anywhere. She was terrified that if she let go, we might disappear again.

It got me thinking about the way I welcome God—or rather, the way I don’t.

We talk a lot in church circles about "child-like faith." To me, child-like faith is that simple, unquestioning trust. It’s the peace of knowing your Dad has the wheel. But watching Ruby that morning, I realized there is another category I’ve been missing:

Dog-like faith.

If child-like faith understands trust, dog-like faith understands desperation.

Ruby didn’t care about dignity. She didn’t care that it was 6:00 AM. She didn’t care about the rules of the house. She knew that there was a door between her and the ones she loved, and that was unacceptable to her. She cried until the barrier was removed.

I realized that, spiritually speaking, I am usually content to sit on my side of the door. I might whimper occasionally when I realize I’ve forgotten God, or when the "reality" of life gets too heavy. But mostly, I’m comfortable. I let the door of distraction, or busyness, or just plain apathy stay shut.

I lack the desperation of the dog.

I want to be more like that Canaanite woman in Matthew 15. She came to Jesus begging for help, and when He tested her, essentially comparing her to a dog, she didn't get offended. She leaned in.

"But she said, 'Yes, Lord; but even the dogs feed on the crumbs which fall from their masters’ table.'" (Matthew 15:27, NASB)

She refused to leave without Him. She had that dog-like tenacity that said, I don’t care how I look, and I don’t care about the protocol; I just need You.

I want to stop being polite about the distance between God and me. I want to get to the point where I understand my desperation well enough that I am willing to destroy the door to get to Him.

Peter talks about a joy that defies description:

"...and though you have not seen Him, you love Him, and though you do not see Him now, but believe in Him, you greatly rejoice with joy inexpressible and full of glory..." (1 Peter 1:8, NASB)

My dog has "joy inexpressible" when I walk in the room. Why is my reaction to the Creator of the Universe so often just a polite nod?

My goal for this coming season is to learn from Ruby. When I feel that separation, I don't want to just cope with it. I want to cry out until the door opens. And when I find Him, I want to do what it says in Song of Solomon 3:4:

"I found him whom my soul loves; I held him and would not let him go."

I want to pin Him down with my praise and my presence, refusing to let the distraction of "reality" pull me away again. I want a faith that is less dignified, and a lot more desperate.