Walking In Faith

I’ve been thinking today about what it means to walk in faith.  To intentionally choose to go into the day by inviting in the One I say that I follow. Every day.  

Walking in faith doesn’t mean being in charge of everything.  Nor does it mean being collared or leashed and submissively allowing myself to be pulled any which way at the whim of some unseen higher power which may or may not care about me.  Walking in faith doesn’t mean not having a say over where I’m going, or how fast I get there.  I think it means trying to be mindful of allowing God to lead.  Being open to new opportunities along the path.  And trusting in a power greater than me, who cares about me, to guide my steps.

Our old dogs, Walker and Lucy, both left us last year.  They both had lived gentle lives.  Enriching our family for 16 and 13 years respectively.  They were members of our family.  Comfortable in what we expected of them. So much so that we rarely had to even tell them.  We’d point, we’d make a clicking noise, we’d snap a finger.  Often we’d just look at them and they’d know what we wanted.  

I don’t recall when Walker was last on a leash.  Once he’d outgrown being a puppy he normally just stayed by us, moving along the path just ahead or right behind us, sniffing at everything that caught his attention.  And Lucy preferred to carry her own leash whenever we walked.  She’d stay right by us on the trail, happily carrying her leash in her mouth the whole walk.  

And now they’re gone.  And we are once again training up a puppy.

Wrigley is 10 months old.  She’s got a sweet personality, and is quick to make amends when she’s made a mistake. Which is often.  

She seems to have a need to carry something in her mouth at all times.  And her dog toys, of which there are many, are rarely what she chooses.  She likes socks.  Shoes. Underwear.  Shirts.  Slippers. TV remotes.  Cell phones.  House phones. Rocks and shells.  Toilet paper rolls.  Pens, pencils, and sticks.  Used napkins or paper towels out of the garbage.  Really anything she can get out of the garbage or off of a counter.  

On walks she will lunge off in whichever direction grabs her attention at the moment.  Going from full stop to full speed in a flash. There is always something of interest to her.  Always something to charge off after.  Seemingly unaware of danger, she’ll strain against the leash, refusing to be guided. 

She’s afraid of other dogs, of eagles, and of the wind.  But she’ll boldly charge out into the road, or race up to the edge of steep cliffs.  Leash training her has been exhausting.

This morning she actually did pretty well on our walk.  She started off in normal fashion, randomly lunging after one thing and then another, only to be held in check by the leash.  But midway through our walk she seemed to be getting the hang of things.  She trotted along happily sniffing at interesting things on the dock—broken mussel shells, feathers, cigarette butts.  Stopping to investigate pigeons sitting on the railings, or wind chimes singing out from the slightest breeze.  

I was thinking how pleasant it was to finally be able to relax my grip on the leash.  I still had a firm grasp, just in case.  But I wasn’t constantly having to brace for impact, anticipating her next lunge.  It was actually becoming a pleasant walk with the dog, instead of a grueling training session.

“Good girl, Wrigs,” I said, reaching to give her a pat.

But instead of basking in my praise, she startled, and whipped around abruptly at the sound of my voice from behind her.  Totally caught off guard to see me right there.  Clearly she’d forgotten about me, and had thought that she was on a solo adventure.

Her reaction only lasted a second, and then, smiling, she wiggled up next to my foot.  Delighted to see me there.  And not just a little bit embarrassed by her reaction.

“Yes, I’m still here,” I said, laughing.

She promptly rolled over onto her back, tail wagging, still smiling, waiting for a pat. 

“Did you forget that I was walking with you this morning?” I teased, rubbing her belly. She licked my hand eagerly.  Clearly embarrassed for her little faux pas.  And I think knowing that I had seen her startled reaction.  No use trying to pretend it hadn’t happened.

We started walking again, both of us still smiling.  But pretty quickly it started to occur to me how very much like Wrigley I am.  

I try to walk in faith.  I try to invite God into my daily walk.  Asking God to be present with me.  To lead the way and to guide my step.  To help me be open to new opportunities along the path.  And to keep me safe from unseen dangers.

And much too often, like Wrigley, I get sidetracked.  Something off the path grabs my attention and I lunge at it.  I see or hear something I don’t understand and I let anxiety and fear take over while I cower.  Or I let in anger, and then don’t recognize how dangerously close I get to the cliff.  I end up taking unnecessary risks, thinking that I’m still just walking along the path. When in reality I left the path quite a ways back.  I bow to selfishness and convince myself that I alone will dictate which way I go.  And somewhere along the walk I forget all about the One I invited to walk with me this day.  To lead me.  To guide my steps.  

By the time Wrigley and I finished our walk this morning I was thinking about my own daily efforts to walk in faith, and how frequently I lose sight of what that actually means.  I specifically thought about some of the times I have been suddenly startled at the presence of God, having completely forgotten that I had issued that invitation.

And I wonder if God, in God’s infinite and inexplicable patience with me, doesn’t chuckle at those times, as well.  Laughing at my startled response.  

I almost think I can hear it.

“Yes, I’m still here.  Did you forget I was walking with you this morning?”