It’s in there.

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After we’ve bought a certain kind of car, we feel a camaraderie with matching cars on the road. Although I’ve never owned a Toyota before, now my eyes land on them, particularly Highlanders. “What a handsome vehicle,” my brain tells me. But before my purchase, I’d never heard of them.

The other day I pulled up behind a Highlander at a red light. I was admiring its silvery color when I noticed something interesting about the Toyota insignia. The letters T-O-Y-O-T-A are all present in that one symbol. And  suddenly it made perfect sense. The loopy design I used to think resembled a man in a cowboy hat was just a clever way to embed the company name into their emblem.

Before the stop light turned green, God put an interesting thought into my head. He, too, is hidden in a similar way, not the letters of his name but his touch, his influence and his wisdom, embedded in the world around us.

I think of God every time I see a flower with five perfectly arranged petals instead of six. It would have been easier to make it symmetrical. I see him hidden in the endlessness of outer space as the Hubble continues to travel and show us more of the heavens. Mankind thinks we’ll eventually see the end of it, but my guess is there is none.

God is hidden in the conception of a baby. With fertilization comes the full potential of a complicated human being. The invisible DNA, present from the first cell division, is so unique it can be trusted to finger a criminal and send him to prison.

The Lord has also hidden himself in the circumstances that come into people’s lives. Our family “saw” him again and again during the 42 days of Nate’s cancer as coincidences became too numerous to be happenstance. He is also hidden in the unexplainable phenomenon of changed lives, of radical turn-arounds that defy logic and probabilities.

God is hidden, yet he calls to us. “Come and find me!” And he intends to let us discover him. This invitation is, of course, the opposite of our M.O. We try to hide things from God, hoping he’ll never ask about them. It might be a deed we’re not proud of or a secret sin we don’t want to stop. It might be a way of thinking we know is wrong.

How ridiculous to think we can hide anything from the Almighty. He has the ability to see beyond x-ray vision right into our thoughts. Nothing can be hidden from him. We would do well to follow his example by telling him, “Come and find me.” But we should also add something he never has to say to us: “I’ll keep no secrets from you.”

“ ‘Can anyone hide in secret places so that I cannot see him?’ declares the Lord. ‘Do not I fill heaven and earth?’ declares the Lord.” (Jeremiah 23:24)

Doggie Defender (by Jack)

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After reading yesterday’s post, I feel the need to make a case for myself in reference to the issue of protecting Midge. In last night’s blog about fear, she glossed over the idea of me playing a key role in looking out for her. Although I’ve always been aware of her needs, during these last nine months since Pidge died, I’ve made that JOB ONE.

But lest you think I’m all “give” and no “get”, I want to set the record straight. My doggie pals and I agree that food is of utmost importance, but immediately after that comes affection. And Midge gives me plenty of that. Every head-pat, back-stroke and tummy-scratch puts heaven on earth for me.

And speaking of heaven, that brings me to the subject of God. I am a deeply spiritual animal, and I do agree with Midge that God is in charge of us both. However, if she experiences fear for any reason, I believe God has put me next to her to leap into action. If she is in need, the Creator will prompt me to tend to it. So don’t think he and I aren’t working in tandem on a regular basis.

Another “get” for me is Midge’s voice. All of us dogs thrive on happy talk. She speaks to me often, and I hang on her every word. Knowing I’m her only audience doesn’t mitigate my pleasure, and I eagerly expend wag-energy letting her know this.

Last night she sat down next to me on the floor, and we had a lengthy conversation. She cooed about how much she loved me and instructed me to live a long time. I’ll be eight in October and am feeling my age, but I promised I’d do my best. As we conversed, she used words; I used my eyes and tail. We understood each other perfectly.

Once in a while Midge is displeased with me, and it breaks my heart when I mess up. For example, last week I got nature’s call after she’d gone to bed. Even though we’d taken our regular midnight walk, several hours later an unexpected urgency came over me.

The next morning I heard her talking loudly to me from the basement corner where I had tried to hide my mess. Since then, I’ve been too embarrassed to go down there, even when Midge does. But I do wait for her at the top of the stairs.

As for protecting her during a break-in? I faithfully demonstrate my ever-readiness each time someone approaches our front door, using my loudest voice (which otherwise is quiet) as a sample of what I’d do in an emergency. If I sensed a smidgen of fear in Midge, I’d be all over an intruder. Some people say I look like a bear. That suits me fine, especially if it would terrorize someone threatening my Midge.

I’m a fortunate canine. Many of my buddies lead aimless lives without direction or purpose, but I’ve been given a calling. So, in conclusion, no one needs to worry about my mistress. Until God takes me to heaven, I’ll protect her like a ferocious, intimidating bear protects its cubs.

“Love always protects. Love never fails.” (1 Corinthians 13:7a,8a)

Afraid of the Dark

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As a young child, I remember being afraid of the dark — not exactly the dark, but of what might be hidden in it. One night I cried with gusto from the upstairs bedroom, hollering for Dad to come and save me. When he appeared in the doorway, I wailed out my problem. “A big bear’s in my closet!” I said, pointing to the half-open door and the darkness inside.

He confidently walked toward the closet, calmly telling me there was no bear in there. “I’ll prove it to you,” he said.

Although I wanted to believe him and he’d never lied to me before, I was trembling as he reached for the door knob. Scooting into my covers till they were up to my eyes, I shouted, “Watch out!”

He bravely reached into the darkness, pulled the string to turn on the light and said, “See? There’s no bear.”

Squinting from my twin bed, I inspected the closet from a distance. And there was the clothes bar with all my familiar-looking dresses hanging on it, and no bear. He was right, and I could relax. With Daddy in the house, I felt safe.

Several of my own children have gone through periods of fear, virtually always at night. As a three year old, Klaus wouldn’t sleep in his room alone but insisted on bunking with seven year old Linnea. Then, when Hans was three, he wanted to sleep face-to-face with Klaus, who had grown into a fearless four year old.

Some of my widowed friends have struggled with fear too, after their husbands died. Although most men would be no match for a robber with a gun, most wives feel secure anyway when sleeping next to them. But once a mate has died, imagination alone can be fear’s invitation to come on in.

On several occasions since Nate has been gone, fear has crept into my bedroom with me. Climbing onto the bed at night is still the loneliest moment of every day and sometimes produces fear. “Did I just hear something? Is someone coming?” (It took a while to get used to acorns thumping on the roof or cracking on the gutters.)

But what’s a widow to do? She can get a big dog like Jack, but far superior to that is to call on the God from whose eyes nothing is hidden. Scripture tells us fear doesn’t come to us from the Lord but is an emotion from our enemy, Satan. Bringing the Heavenly Husband into a mental confrontation with fear is to replace anxiety with peace, just as my earthly Daddy did for me years ago.

Having confidence in God’s ready presence is a definite help during fearful moments. And being certain he is with me when it’s dark outside the windows or just dark inside my emotions is even better than owning a big, barking, protective, snarling, attack dog.

”For you are my lamp, O Lord, and the Lord will lighten my darkness.” (2 Samuel 22:29)