Coconut
Member
- Joined
- Feb 17, 2005
- Messages
- 4,663
'...Then I knew that God had answered my prayers after all.'
1Co 13:12 Now we see only a blurred reflection in a mirror, but then we will see face to face. Now what I know is incomplete, but then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known.
I thought this story portrayed a beautiful truth - even if now tears blur your eyes, and trouble blurs your vision...so you cannot see that God is indeed answering your prayers-
- God "fully knows" you...and what you need!
The Old Man and the Dog
by Catherine Moore
"Watch out! You nearly broad sided that car!" my father
yelled at me. "Can't you do anything right?"
Those words hurt worse than blows. I turned my head
toward the elderly man in the seat beside me, daring me
to challenge him. A lump rose in my throat as I averted
my eyes. I wasn't prepared for another battle.
"I saw the car, Dad. Please don't yell at me when I'm driving."
My voice was measured and steady, sounding far calmer than
I really felt.
Dad glared at me, then turned away and settled back. At home
I left Dad in front of the television and went outside to collect
my thoughts. Dark, heavy clouds hung in the air with a promise
of rain. The rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo my inner
turmoil. What could I do about him?
Dad had been a lumberjack in Washington and Oregon. He had
enjoyed being outdoors and had reveled in pitting his strength
against the forces of nature. He had entered grueling lumberjack
competitions, and had placed often. The shelves in his house
were filled with trophies that attested to his prowess.
The years marched on relentlessly. The first time he couldn't lift a
heavy log, he joked about it; but later that same day I saw him
outside alone, straining to lift it. He became irritable whenever
anyone teased him about his advancing age, or when he couldn't
do something he had done as a younger man.
Four days after his sixty-seventh birthday, he had a heart attack. An
ambulance sped him to the hospital while a paramedic administered
CPR to keep blood and oxygen flowing. At the hospital, Dad was
rushed into an operating room. He was lucky; he survived. But
something inside Dad died. His zest for life was gone. He obstinately
refused to follow doctor's orders. Suggestions and offers of help were
turned aside with sarcasm and insults. The number of visitors thinned,
then finally stopped altogether. Dad was left alone.
My husband, ****, and I asked Dad to come live with us on our small
farm. We hoped the fresh air and rustic atmosphere would help him
adjust. Within a week after he moved in, I regretted the invitation. It seemed nothing was satisfactory. He criticized everything I did. I became frustrated and moody. Soon I was taking my pent-up anger out on ****. We began to bicker and argue.
Alarmed, **** sought out our pastor and explained the situation. The
clergyman set up weekly counseling appointments for us. At the close
of each session he prayed, asking God to soothe Dad's troubled mind.
But the months wore on and God was silent. Something had to be done
and it was up to me to do it.
The next day I sat down with the phone book and methodically called
each of the mental health clinics listed in the Yellow Pages. I explained
my problem to each of the sympathetic voices that answered in vain.
Just when I was giving up hope, one of the voices suddenly exclaimed,
"I just read something that might help you! Let me go get the article."
I listened as she read. The article described a remarkable study done at
a nursing home. All of the patients were under treatment for chronic
depression. Yet their attitudes had improved dramatically when they
were given responsibility for a dog.
I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon. After I filled out a
questionnaire, a uniformed officer led me to the kennels. The odor of
disinfectant stung my nostrils as I moved down the row of pens. Each
contained five to seven dogs. Long-haired dogs, curly-haired dogs,
black dogs, spotted dogs all jumped up, trying to reach me. I studied
each one but rejected one after the other for various reasons too big
, too small, too much hair. As I neared the last pen a dog in the
shadows of the far corner struggled to his feet, walked to the front
of the run and sat down. It was a pointer, one of the dog world's
aristocrats. But this was a caricature of the breed.
Years had etched his face and muzzle with shades of gray. His
hipbones jutted out in lopsided triangles. But it was his eyes that
caught and held my attention. Calm and clear, they beheld me
unwaveringly. I pointed to the dog. "Can you tell me about him?"
The officer looked, then shook his head in puzzlement. "He's a funny
one. Appeared out of nowhere and sat in front of the gate. We
brought him in, figuring someone would be right down to claim him.
That was two weeks ago and we've heard nothing. His time is up
tomorrow." He gestured helplessly.
As the words sank in I turned to the man in horror. "You mean you're
going to kill him?" "Ma'am," he said gently, "that's our policy. We don't
have room for every unclaimed dog."
I looked at the pointer again. The calm brown eyes awaited my decision. "I'll take him," I said..... I drove home with the dog on the front seat beside me. When I reached the house I honked the horn twice. I was helping my prize out of the car when Dad shuffled onto the front porch. "Ta-da! Look what I got for you, Dad!" I said excitedly.
Dad looked, then wrinkled his face in disgust. "If I had wanted a dog I
would have gotten one. And I would have picked out a better specimen
than that bag of bones. Keep it! I don't want it." Dad waved his arm
scornfully and turned back toward the house.
Anger rose inside me. It squeezed together my throat muscles and
pounded into my temples. "You'd better get used to him, Dad. He's
staying!" Dad ignored me. "Did you hear me, Dad?" I screamed.
At those words Dad whirled angrily, his hands clenched at his sides,
his eyes narrowed and blazing with hate. We stood glaring at each
other like duelists, when suddenly the pointer pulled free from my
grasp. He wobbled toward my dad and sat down in front of him. Then
slowly, carefully, he raised his paw.
Dad's lower jaw trembled as he stared at the uplifted paw. Confusion
replaced the anger in his eyes. The pointer waited patiently. Then
Dad was on his knees hugging the animal.
It was the beginning of a warm and intimate friendship. Dad named
the pointer Cheyenne. Together he and Cheyenne explored the
community. They spent long hours walking down dusty lanes. They
spent reflective moments on the banks of streams, angling for tasty
trout. They even started to attend Sunday services together, Dad sitting in a pew and Cheyenne lying quietly at his feet.
Dad and Cheyenne were inseparable throughout the next three years.
Dad's bitterness faded, and he and Cheyenne made many friends. Then
late one night I was startled to feel Cheyenne's cold nose burrowing
through our bed covers. He had never before come into our bedroom at
night. I woke ****, put on my robe and ran into my father's room. Dad
lay in his bed, his face serene. But his spirit had left quietly sometime
during the night.
Two days later my shock and grief deepened when I discovered
Cheyenne lying dead beside Dad's bed. I wrapped his still form in the
rag rug he had slept on. As **** and I buried him near a favorite fishing
hole, I silently thanked the dog for the help he had given me in restoring Dad's peace of mind.
The morning of Dad's funeral dawned overcast and dreary. This day
looks like the way I feel, I thought, as I walked down the aisle to the pews reserved for family. I was surprised to see the many friends Dad and Cheyenne had made filling the church. The pastor began his eulogy. It was a tribute to both Dad and the dog who had changed his life.
And then the pastor turned to Hebrews 13:2.
"Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by this some have entertained angels without knowing it."
"I've often thanked God for sending that angel," he said.
For me, the past dropped into place, completing a puzzle that I had not
seen before: the sympathetic voice that had just read the right article.
Then Cheyenne's unexpected appearance at the animal shelter........his
calm acceptance and complete devotion to my father....and the proximity of their deaths. And suddenly I understood. I knew that God had answered my prayers after all.
1Co 13:12 Now we see only a blurred reflection in a mirror, but then we will see face to face. Now what I know is incomplete, but then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known.
I thought this story portrayed a beautiful truth - even if now tears blur your eyes, and trouble blurs your vision...so you cannot see that God is indeed answering your prayers-
- God "fully knows" you...and what you need!
The Old Man and the Dog
by Catherine Moore
"Watch out! You nearly broad sided that car!" my father
yelled at me. "Can't you do anything right?"
Those words hurt worse than blows. I turned my head
toward the elderly man in the seat beside me, daring me
to challenge him. A lump rose in my throat as I averted
my eyes. I wasn't prepared for another battle.
"I saw the car, Dad. Please don't yell at me when I'm driving."
My voice was measured and steady, sounding far calmer than
I really felt.
Dad glared at me, then turned away and settled back. At home
I left Dad in front of the television and went outside to collect
my thoughts. Dark, heavy clouds hung in the air with a promise
of rain. The rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo my inner
turmoil. What could I do about him?
Dad had been a lumberjack in Washington and Oregon. He had
enjoyed being outdoors and had reveled in pitting his strength
against the forces of nature. He had entered grueling lumberjack
competitions, and had placed often. The shelves in his house
were filled with trophies that attested to his prowess.
The years marched on relentlessly. The first time he couldn't lift a
heavy log, he joked about it; but later that same day I saw him
outside alone, straining to lift it. He became irritable whenever
anyone teased him about his advancing age, or when he couldn't
do something he had done as a younger man.
Four days after his sixty-seventh birthday, he had a heart attack. An
ambulance sped him to the hospital while a paramedic administered
CPR to keep blood and oxygen flowing. At the hospital, Dad was
rushed into an operating room. He was lucky; he survived. But
something inside Dad died. His zest for life was gone. He obstinately
refused to follow doctor's orders. Suggestions and offers of help were
turned aside with sarcasm and insults. The number of visitors thinned,
then finally stopped altogether. Dad was left alone.
My husband, ****, and I asked Dad to come live with us on our small
farm. We hoped the fresh air and rustic atmosphere would help him
adjust. Within a week after he moved in, I regretted the invitation. It seemed nothing was satisfactory. He criticized everything I did. I became frustrated and moody. Soon I was taking my pent-up anger out on ****. We began to bicker and argue.
Alarmed, **** sought out our pastor and explained the situation. The
clergyman set up weekly counseling appointments for us. At the close
of each session he prayed, asking God to soothe Dad's troubled mind.
But the months wore on and God was silent. Something had to be done
and it was up to me to do it.
The next day I sat down with the phone book and methodically called
each of the mental health clinics listed in the Yellow Pages. I explained
my problem to each of the sympathetic voices that answered in vain.
Just when I was giving up hope, one of the voices suddenly exclaimed,
"I just read something that might help you! Let me go get the article."
I listened as she read. The article described a remarkable study done at
a nursing home. All of the patients were under treatment for chronic
depression. Yet their attitudes had improved dramatically when they
were given responsibility for a dog.
I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon. After I filled out a
questionnaire, a uniformed officer led me to the kennels. The odor of
disinfectant stung my nostrils as I moved down the row of pens. Each
contained five to seven dogs. Long-haired dogs, curly-haired dogs,
black dogs, spotted dogs all jumped up, trying to reach me. I studied
each one but rejected one after the other for various reasons too big
, too small, too much hair. As I neared the last pen a dog in the
shadows of the far corner struggled to his feet, walked to the front
of the run and sat down. It was a pointer, one of the dog world's
aristocrats. But this was a caricature of the breed.
Years had etched his face and muzzle with shades of gray. His
hipbones jutted out in lopsided triangles. But it was his eyes that
caught and held my attention. Calm and clear, they beheld me
unwaveringly. I pointed to the dog. "Can you tell me about him?"
The officer looked, then shook his head in puzzlement. "He's a funny
one. Appeared out of nowhere and sat in front of the gate. We
brought him in, figuring someone would be right down to claim him.
That was two weeks ago and we've heard nothing. His time is up
tomorrow." He gestured helplessly.
As the words sank in I turned to the man in horror. "You mean you're
going to kill him?" "Ma'am," he said gently, "that's our policy. We don't
have room for every unclaimed dog."
I looked at the pointer again. The calm brown eyes awaited my decision. "I'll take him," I said..... I drove home with the dog on the front seat beside me. When I reached the house I honked the horn twice. I was helping my prize out of the car when Dad shuffled onto the front porch. "Ta-da! Look what I got for you, Dad!" I said excitedly.
Dad looked, then wrinkled his face in disgust. "If I had wanted a dog I
would have gotten one. And I would have picked out a better specimen
than that bag of bones. Keep it! I don't want it." Dad waved his arm
scornfully and turned back toward the house.
Anger rose inside me. It squeezed together my throat muscles and
pounded into my temples. "You'd better get used to him, Dad. He's
staying!" Dad ignored me. "Did you hear me, Dad?" I screamed.
At those words Dad whirled angrily, his hands clenched at his sides,
his eyes narrowed and blazing with hate. We stood glaring at each
other like duelists, when suddenly the pointer pulled free from my
grasp. He wobbled toward my dad and sat down in front of him. Then
slowly, carefully, he raised his paw.
Dad's lower jaw trembled as he stared at the uplifted paw. Confusion
replaced the anger in his eyes. The pointer waited patiently. Then
Dad was on his knees hugging the animal.
It was the beginning of a warm and intimate friendship. Dad named
the pointer Cheyenne. Together he and Cheyenne explored the
community. They spent long hours walking down dusty lanes. They
spent reflective moments on the banks of streams, angling for tasty
trout. They even started to attend Sunday services together, Dad sitting in a pew and Cheyenne lying quietly at his feet.
Dad and Cheyenne were inseparable throughout the next three years.
Dad's bitterness faded, and he and Cheyenne made many friends. Then
late one night I was startled to feel Cheyenne's cold nose burrowing
through our bed covers. He had never before come into our bedroom at
night. I woke ****, put on my robe and ran into my father's room. Dad
lay in his bed, his face serene. But his spirit had left quietly sometime
during the night.
Two days later my shock and grief deepened when I discovered
Cheyenne lying dead beside Dad's bed. I wrapped his still form in the
rag rug he had slept on. As **** and I buried him near a favorite fishing
hole, I silently thanked the dog for the help he had given me in restoring Dad's peace of mind.
The morning of Dad's funeral dawned overcast and dreary. This day
looks like the way I feel, I thought, as I walked down the aisle to the pews reserved for family. I was surprised to see the many friends Dad and Cheyenne had made filling the church. The pastor began his eulogy. It was a tribute to both Dad and the dog who had changed his life.
And then the pastor turned to Hebrews 13:2.
"Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by this some have entertained angels without knowing it."
"I've often thanked God for sending that angel," he said.
For me, the past dropped into place, completing a puzzle that I had not
seen before: the sympathetic voice that had just read the right article.
Then Cheyenne's unexpected appearance at the animal shelter........his
calm acceptance and complete devotion to my father....and the proximity of their deaths. And suddenly I understood. I knew that God had answered my prayers after all.
Last edited:
