Lightning flashes through the window like an early morning alarm, and I move toward the kitchen. I see him working to secure anything that might fly away. It’s a busy few moments, a louder morning than usual, and a cranky start to my day. I’m feeling a bit off as if the storm has seeped into my heart. The Psalmist calls it “shaken.”

I walk out of the house with a “business as usual” look about me, but my insides are still stormy. I drive to work mulling over how I missed the mark when it comes to keeping peace, attempting to formulate a plan of avoidance for next time. That’s when I noticed a movement.

Up ahead the black streak of a dog heads toward an oncoming vehicle and I whisper, “Not today, Lord…”. The dog turns as I get closer, and I watch in wonder as it zooms in circles through the deep puddle left by the storm.
Ears pinned back,
tail held high,
splashing,
running,
full of dog-joy.

The spark of a desire flames into a thought. I want to be like that dog.

God’s voice within draws my attention, without the storm there would be no puddle.

In order to be like the dog, I must see it through the lens of dog perspective. After a bit of pondering I realize the dog innately knows something I’ve forgotten. He knows how to focus.

Maybe that’s the the secret of man’s best friend. Dogs, perhaps all God’s creatures (except for us), live in the now. Totally dependent on God to provide what is needed for the moment. They don’t reflect over how they survived the storm. There’s no planning for future storms. They are simply right here. right now.

That pup’s joyful abandon reminds me that at some point this morning I lost focus. I turned the camera lens inward on myself.
Yes, I failed.
But instead of taking my failure to God I got caught up in fixing it.

Anything less just won’t do.