Mine or His?
His muscles quivered with tension. His tail flicked left and right -- and left again. Anticipation oozed from every pore of his mixed Pug/Chihuahua body. How could I say no to those coal-black eyes?
"You want a chewy?"
Before the last syllable left my lips, Odie leapt and twirled in circles around my legs. His ear-piercing yelps sent goose bumps down the back of my neck. You'd think I'd offered him a 32-ounce char-broiled steak.
I pushed open the pantry door and reached for the dog treats. That was a mistake. As soon as he saw me pull the box from the shelf, he ratcheted his frenzy up another few notches. Odie's only a foot and a half tall when standing on his hind legs, but can fly three feet off the floor at the thought of getting a goodie.
"Sit," I ordered. "Down! Now roll over. Good dog."
Satisfied he knew who was boss, I tossed the treat at his feet. Before it bounced twice, Odie snatched it between his teeth and trotted to his rug in the kitchen. He circled himself into a cozy spot and, for the next few moments, I watched him nuzzle and lick his chewy with the affection I thought he reserved only for me. He seemed oblivious to my existence . . . until I took a step toward him. As I did, he scrambled to his feet and snatched the treasure between his jaws.
I smiled when I realized what my dog was thinking. I stepped back and he carefully laid it again on the floor -- never taking his eyes off me. Each time I moved toward him he grabbed the chewy as if to challenge: "Mine! You can't have it."
We played the game a few more times until I tired of it and walked past him into the living room. From the recliner, I watched him still watching me and I wondered, didn't he realize I'm the one who feeds him, takes him for walks in the rain, snow, heat and hail? Didn't he remember I sacrificed my favorite belt so we could play tug-of-war? I thought we were buddies. So why does he jealously guard a treat I gave him?
While Odie nuzzled his treasure and warily eyed me, another question filtered through my mind more clearly than Balaam heard the donkey. You can read about it in Numbers 22. How often do I act like Odie?
More than I'd like to admit.
Just as every good thing Odie gets, he gets from me, so every good thing I get "is from above, coming down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation, or shifting shadow" (James 1:17). From the goodness of my heart, I give Odie chewies. From the goodness of God's heart, I receive treasures such as money, talents, health, time.
So why, when He asks me to return some of my treasure to His work, do I jealously guard each coin, each minute, each talent in tightly clenched fists, as if to challenge the Giver, "It's mine! You can't have it"?
After these many years of walking with Christ -- more than thirty, actually -- I still struggle with that question. Odie acts like a beast because he is a beast.
But, I am a child of God. I wish I'd act more like one.
Rich
Rmaffeo@comcast.net
"You want a chewy?"
Before the last syllable left my lips, Odie leapt and twirled in circles around my legs. His ear-piercing yelps sent goose bumps down the back of my neck. You'd think I'd offered him a 32-ounce char-broiled steak.
I pushed open the pantry door and reached for the dog treats. That was a mistake. As soon as he saw me pull the box from the shelf, he ratcheted his frenzy up another few notches. Odie's only a foot and a half tall when standing on his hind legs, but can fly three feet off the floor at the thought of getting a goodie.
"Sit," I ordered. "Down! Now roll over. Good dog."
Satisfied he knew who was boss, I tossed the treat at his feet. Before it bounced twice, Odie snatched it between his teeth and trotted to his rug in the kitchen. He circled himself into a cozy spot and, for the next few moments, I watched him nuzzle and lick his chewy with the affection I thought he reserved only for me. He seemed oblivious to my existence . . . until I took a step toward him. As I did, he scrambled to his feet and snatched the treasure between his jaws.
I smiled when I realized what my dog was thinking. I stepped back and he carefully laid it again on the floor -- never taking his eyes off me. Each time I moved toward him he grabbed the chewy as if to challenge: "Mine! You can't have it."
We played the game a few more times until I tired of it and walked past him into the living room. From the recliner, I watched him still watching me and I wondered, didn't he realize I'm the one who feeds him, takes him for walks in the rain, snow, heat and hail? Didn't he remember I sacrificed my favorite belt so we could play tug-of-war? I thought we were buddies. So why does he jealously guard a treat I gave him?
While Odie nuzzled his treasure and warily eyed me, another question filtered through my mind more clearly than Balaam heard the donkey. You can read about it in Numbers 22. How often do I act like Odie?
More than I'd like to admit.
Just as every good thing Odie gets, he gets from me, so every good thing I get "is from above, coming down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation, or shifting shadow" (James 1:17). From the goodness of my heart, I give Odie chewies. From the goodness of God's heart, I receive treasures such as money, talents, health, time.
So why, when He asks me to return some of my treasure to His work, do I jealously guard each coin, each minute, each talent in tightly clenched fists, as if to challenge the Giver, "It's mine! You can't have it"?
After these many years of walking with Christ -- more than thirty, actually -- I still struggle with that question. Odie acts like a beast because he is a beast.
But, I am a child of God. I wish I'd act more like one.
Rich
Rmaffeo@comcast.net
posted by rich at
11:49 PM
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