She clearly doesn’t speak ‘canine’ yet

“He’s supposed to be Irish. An Irish terrier, whose DNA says he feels at home in Irish weather.” But somehow, I ended up picking the sunshine-loving pup of the litter—a kind of compass needle that only points toward one direction in stormy weather: his dry, warm bed.

Honestly, I didn’t mind that genetic quirk. Coming home soaked or basking in the scent of wet dog wasn’t my thing anyway. So quick strolls on drizzly days became our norm. We understood each other. At least, until the corona lockdown. Suddenly, my dog became my alibi I could go outside without risking a fine.

My terrier, however, was visibly confused. Why on earth would his owner willingly brave the dike in pouring rain? The stubborn creature would sprint toward any patch of trees in sight. Under one thin leafy shelter, I bumped into my neighbor with his labrador.

It was pouring now. Further on, a woman was struggling with a puppy. Muted swearing in the night. Clearly a lockdown-only dog owner. The little furball frolicked in puddles, ignored every command, and eventually spun around his owner so many times that she fell entangled in the too-long leash. Umbrella broken. Pants muddied. More swearing, but plenty of tail wagging. We couldn’t help laughing. “Tja,” said my neighbor, “guess no one told her the dog has to go out even in this weather.”

Moments later she stood beside us, gripping the puppy tighter; still chattering away. “Yeah, he doesn’t really listen yet,” she said. “And he’s very tired. Look, he’s yawning already. So I’m off.” And with that, she was gone dragging the puppy behind her. I looked at my neighbor. He smiled and said: “She clearly doesn’t speak ‘canine’ yet.”

 Not long ago, my little daughter asked me, “I don’t think God ever says anything to me. How can I know what He’s saying?”

I thought back to that woman and how it mirrors my own journey in understanding God’s voice. How often have I missed His signals like she overlooked her puppy’s protest yawn? How often have I grumbled about the mud, when I could’ve danced with Him in the puddles? And how often did I complain that God wasn’t listening, while I rattled on nonstop?

Forgetting that a good Listener only needs half a word. He knows my thoughts from afar. The Eternal One in heaven sees more and knows more than I ever could here on earth. I, who’ve only just arrived.

God is no occasional God. It takes more than a proverbial puppy-training course to recognize what He’s saying to us. But if you walk with Him through wind and weather, He becomes your freedom in the lockdowns of life. Even better: you’ll gradually learn to speak God.