As often happens, something awakened me today in the wee hours. However, resuming my long nap wasn’t an option: my noggin had already kicked into gear. This usually begins with pangs of confession from yesterday (flippant remarks, foolish behavior, missed opportunities, failed victories). Having taken those to God, I was still stir crazy: ‘needed to pray about concerns, relationships, finances, and loved ones. Finally, I found—once again—the peace of God guarding my heart.
Because God knows everything—and lives in me—each prayer is short: many of them take the form of single-syllable whimpers—one, after another, after another. No one else in the house is awake to hear these groans. Even if they were, a plethora of platitudes is never necessary to cast our cares upon the Lord. In fact, that’s usually not a good sign.
After this morning’s talk du jour, I came away with the strangest idea: puppy dogs. Even those of us running the race, maturing, and overcoming, sometimes behave like little puppies: given the gift of life, we carry on—but each day has its sporadic butting of the muzzle against the side of the newspaper-lined cardboard box. No one is exempt from being born in this giant litter of pups, and it can get crowded in there (and sometimes smelly).
With so many years of experience, wisdom, and grace, you’d think we’d be done with growling, hiding the slippers, and biting the hand that feeds us. We want to be loyal, but we have the propensity to tug on our restraints—and don’t always come when called.
So… I’ve learned to whimper when I need to. And—unfailingly—my Handler lifts me up, turns my little patootie back in the right direction, and—if necessary—gives me a little swat.
I’m glad He hears those early-morning cozy-bed prayers. It’s my Master and me. And in the dark, amidst the silence, I can be thankful for one thing:
At least the cardboard box is lined with my favorite blankies.