I’m … quite … out … of … breath. I … just … experienced … a new … aerobic … workout … routine. Think … I’ll call it … a Winston … Sprint. Winston … is my … dog. He’s fast … and … playful… and sometimes … quite … insane. Not … a good … combination.
Okay … I think my lungs … might not collapse … after all … so let me explain.
Moments ago, I was sitting at my computer working and talking on the phone. I heard a car drive up and saw that it was the mailman. My son had already instructed me to be sure to stay home and answer the door since he was expecting a new video game in the mail. (And what, after all, could possibly be more important than that?)
So, while still conversing on the phone, I intercepted the mailman and received the all-important package, and very accidentally allowed Winston to slip out the front door. As some of you may remember from my previous columns, Winston is still serving a life sentence for various and assorted crimes against humanity and chickens, and he is normally confined to the inside of our house and a fenced-in acre of our backyard. Winston does not venture beyond his kingdom, except when he’s tethered to a leash firmly gripped in my hand.
This morning, Winston’s forbidden world suddenly opened up and he tasted complete freedom for the first time in a long time. He darted out the front door and began chasing the mailman’s car around our circular driveway. I stuffed the phone in my pocket and commenced pursuit. We’ve often speculated that Winston is part gazelle (although no self-respecting gazelle family would claim such a bundle of wrinkles, I’m sure). I’d bet on our mailman’s car running out of gas before Winston ever did, so I had visions of a bad situation unfolding before me.
Thankfully, the mail carrier had to pull into our neighbor’s house for a delivery, so while he got out of his car and went to the door, Winston stopped running. I tried to reason with my pup, but Winston ignored my pleas and commands, choosing instead to frolic, leap and generally mess with my mind. A greased pig would have been easier to apprehend – no way this forty-something body was going to be able to snag this dog.
Just as the mailman was getting ready to pull out and I was shooting up some frantic “Help me, God” prayers, Winston unexplainably trotted back to our house and through the front door, which I had left standing wide open when the chase began.
“Hey, Winston knows where he belongs,” I thought.
God then tapped me on the shoulder and communicated one of His unmistakable, quiet lessons. He reminded me that He is a God of grace and wants to be able to give His children much freedom within His will. Sometimes, however, we mistake His grace for license and dangerously dart off in the wrong directions, chasing all the wrong things. His Holy Spirit faithfully reminds us who we are and where we belong, but it’s up to us to listen to that still, small voice and to choose to come home to the safety of the Father’s perfect will.
I hope Winston will never run away again, but it’s good to know that at least this time, he didn’t stay gone very long. He remembered where he lived and who he belonged to … and he found the door wide open when he returned. God says it will be that way for us, too, if we’re coming home to Him.
“Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts; and let him return to the Lord, and He will have compassion on him; and to our God, for He will abundantly pardon.” – Isaiah 55:7