Lessons from a Dog

May a little breeze of joy find you today, right where you are, even if you have to stick your head out the window to feel it.

Some days carry a weight we never asked for. We move through our routines doing the best we can, hoping for a moment of lightness to break through the heaviness. Today, that moment found me while sitting at a traffic light. 

As I was stopped behind a car, I noticed a dog leaning out of a car window with a cone the size of Texas around his neck and yet he seemed absolutely delighted at the same time. And somehow, in the middle of everything on my mind, a smile emerged from me. 

I found myself wondering what he would have said if he could talk.

Maybe something like, “I may look ridiculous to you, but have you felt this wind, smelled this air, and seen what I see?”

I loved how he leaned into the breeze, unbothered by the collar meant to keep him from hurting himself. Watching him made me think about the things in my own life that feel uncomfortable or restrictive. Sometimes we only see the inconvenience, the limitation, or the frustration of what we are walking through. We rarely recognize that some of the things that slow us down or hold us back for a season are actually there to protect us.

We do not always know when a closed door is keeping us safe.
We do not always see how a delay is giving us time to heal.
We do not always understand how a boundary, a pause, or even a loss might be shielding us from something we cannot yet see.

Just like that dog, we may feel awkward or confined, but the very thing we resent might be the thing that is helping us recover. And while we are healing, God still sends moments of joy to remind us that we are not forgotten. Even in the middle of our limitations, there is still beauty to notice, still goodness to breathe in, still light waiting to touch our spirit.

Even when life places limits around us, God’s goodness still finds a way to reach us.
Even when we feel restricted, tired, or worn thin, there is still a breeze of joy waiting to brush against our spirit. Even when we are healing slowly, quietly, and imperfectly, joy is not off limits.

Sometimes we just have to lean toward it.

That dog did not wait for life to be perfect before enjoying the ride. He did not wait for the cone to come off before lifting his face to the wind. He found joy in the middle of his healing.

And maybe that is the lesson for us too.

We do not have to wait for everything to be fixed, solved, or restored before we let ourselves smile again. We can laugh at ourselves a little. We can breathe in the air of a new day. We can trust that God is still working, still healing, still guiding, and still loving us through every season.

Life may put a cone on our necks, but God can put a smile in our hearts.

A Father Who Sees

 

This afternoon’s errands took me to Walmart on a cool, rainy day. As I wandered into the toy aisle, I noticed the joy and tenderness shared between fathers and their children. I watched fathers standing beside their little ones, letting small hands guide them from toy to toy. There was sweetness in the way the children called out to their fathers, certain they would be heard.

One moment touched my heart. A little boy pointed at a bright yellow school bus and said look dad, look with all the urgency and trust a child can hold. His father didn’t rush him or brush him aside. He bent down, looked exactly where his son pointed, and gave him his full attention. When I echoed the boy’s excitement, the father smiled and said, he wants me to look at everything. There was warmth in his voice, not frustration. It was such a simple exchange, yet it held the whole shape of love: a child longing to be seen, and a father choosing to see.

As I walked away, I found myself thinking about my Heavenly Father. I thought about how often I whisper, look at that sky or look at the mountains rising in the distance. And I wondered if He feels the same quiet joy when I draw His attention to something beautiful. I imagine Him turning His gaze toward whatever I’m noticing and saying, I see it, and I see you.

But beauty isn’t the only thing I bring to Him. There are those moments that are not lovely at all. The storms. The misunderstandings. The days when your heart feels heavy or your voice feels small. When I call out His name in those moments, I believe He bends toward me just as tenderly. He gives me His undivided attention whether I am pointing to something lovely or something painful. He listens to whatever I want to share, without hesitation and without hurry.

He is a Father who never tires of my voice, who never grows weary of looking when I say look, who delights in the simple fact that I want to share something with Him. And I am grateful for that kind of love, grateful for fathers on earth who show us glimpses of it, and grateful for a Heavenly Father who sees me in joy and in sorrow, in clarity and in confusion, and who never grows weary of hearing my voice when I call out His name.

Curb Check

 

Some days offer a small moment that quietly brings an unexpected smile. Mine arrived in the form of a courtesy ride after dropping my car off at the collision repair shop. The driver looked to be in his late seventies and drove a little faster than I expected, but the distance to the rental car place was short and our conversation was the kind that happens when two strangers share a few minutes of life.

As we pulled into the rental car lot, he turned a little too sharply and bumped the curb. He  said he shouldn’t have done that. I smiled and told him we would just call it a curb check. He smiled and that opened the door for me to share the story behind those words.

I told him how Kelly, lovingly known as Grandpa, used to drift a little too close to the curb when he drove. Afterwards he would simply say curb check, just making sure the curb is still there. I usually would shake my head and roll my eyes, but now saying those words again brought the memory back with such sweetness. The sound of his voice, the way he could turn a moment into something humorous. I love how those tiny moments have become a fun memory of him, and how sharing it brought something new to this driver, something I felt he could carry with him and maybe use again someday.

Life is made up of plenty of little bumps, the kind that catch us off guard, nudge us off course, or make us wince for a moment. But when we can, it helps to remember this story and turn those moments into a curb check of sorts. A reminder that not every bump is a disaster. Sometimes it is just life tapping us on the shoulder, making sure we are awake, present, and still moving forward.

The simple phrase Grandpa gave us with the reply "curb check", can remind us that love lingers in the simplest places, even in the soft bump of a tire against a curb.

Drifting

 This morning, as I thought about my routines and the small daily things I want to do better, the word drifting came to mind. I felt myself slipping away from some of the good patterns in my life. But with that thought came a memory that is both tender and instructive.

When Kelly and I traveled to the southern coast of Texas for work, we always tried to stay through a weekend so we could enjoy the ocean. We loved everything about it, the sound, the beauty, the way it made us feel. We would gather our beach supplies, set up our chairs, secure everything against the wind, and then walk hand in hand into the water.

The waves were strong, and Kelly always held my hand because he knew how easily they could knock me over. I love this memory of us walking together, and the gentle way he showed his love for me by wanting to help me and stay close to me.

While we played in the water, we tried to stay lined up with our chairs and belongings on the shoreline. That was our marker, our little lighthouse on the sand. But one day, after laughing, catching waves, and simply enjoying being together, we looked up and realized we had drifted far from where we started. The current had quietly carried us down the shoreline without us noticing. The movement was so subtle, disguised by the joy of the moment, that we did not realize it until we looked toward the shore for our marker.

We were safe, but we had set a boundary for ourselves so that returning to our things would not be difficult when we were ready to go back. And we knew that if we did not fight our way upstream, swimming, walking, holding hands, doing whatever it took, we would drift even farther. So, we worked our way back with steady determination, returning to the place we had anchored ourselves, the place that represented our home base.

I love recalling this memory as I thought about drifting spiritually with prayer, scripture study, church, service, and all the things that keep us spiritually grounded. It is so easy to drift. Not because we are rebellious or careless, but because life has currents. Responsibilities, distractions, exhaustion, grief, and even good things can quietly pull us away from where we meant to be.

And just like in the ocean, drifting happens slowly. Softly. Almost pleasantly. Until one day we look up and realize we are no longer aligned with our Savior the way we want to be.

I love knowing that Jesus Christ never moves. He never drifts. He simply waits for us to look up and notice where we are. And when we do, He helps us return, gently, patiently, and without shame.

Drifting is part of mortality. It is not failure; it is the natural pull of a world full of currents. The lesson is not to never drift. The lesson is to  notice sooner. Look up more often. Check our alignment. Pay attention to where the current is carrying us.

And when we realize we have drifted, we just need to turn back toward Him. The Savior is not measuring how far we drift. He is watching how often we reach for Him.

When Understanding Comes After the Honk

As I was out running errands one day and getting ready to merge onto the highway, a car behind me began honking. I looked around quickly to see if I had done something wrong, but nothing seemed out of place. I kept driving, assuming the honking must be meant for someone else. Then it happened again, a little closer this time. It was not an angry sound, but it felt like someone was trying to get my attention.

Experience and a little fear told me to ignore it and stay focused on the road. After a moment, I noticed the driver move to one side of me and then the other, still trying to signal something. I was too nervous to look over, so I kept my eyes straight ahead. Eventually the car exited the highway and I felt a wave of relief.

As I settled back into my drive, something in my mirror caught my eye. I pulled over and realized that my gas door was open and the gas cap was hanging loose. That kind driver had been trying to help me, but I was too afraid to look or listen. Still, their effort made me question what was happening and eventually led me to notice the problem.

As I thought more about what happened, I realized something else. I believe it was wise not to respond to the driver in that moment because sometimes it truly is better to be safe. We live in a world where caution can protect us. But I also want to remember that someone might be trying to help, and once I feel safe, it is worth taking a moment to look again and follow up. There is a balance between being careful and being open, and I am still learning how to find it.

Another thought came to me as I reflected on this experience. There are times when we try to help others and they may not respond right away. They might be unsure, distracted, or even a little afraid, just as I was. But that does not mean our effort goes unnoticed. Sometimes people need time before they can see what we were trying to offer. The guidance or kindness we give may settle quietly in their hearts and rise up later when they feel safe enough to consider it. Help that is given with good intent has a way of finding its place.

This reminded me that the Lord often works the same way. He sends gentle nudges, small warnings, or quiet encouragement through the people around us. We may not recognize it right away, but the message stays with us until we are ready to see it. And just as that kind driver tried to help me, we can be instruments in His hands for someone else, even if they do not respond at first.

A scripture came to mind as I thought about all of this. John 13:7

"Jesus answered and said unto him, What I do thou knowest not now; but thou shalt know hereafter."

Fear can make us turn away, but faith invites us to look again. And sometimes the help we give or receive becomes clearer with time, reminding us that the Lord is always guiding us, both through others and through the small moments we almost overlook.

The Quiet Man Across The Hall

I met Tom on the day we moved Mom into her room on the second floor of the care facility. She had just settled in when I noticed him in his wheelchair nearby. I said hello and asked, “What is your name?”

He looked at me in this funny and slightly unsettling way and said, “You know what my name is.”

I told him, “No, I don’t know your name. Tell me.”

He just repeated, “You know.”

And that was my introduction to Tom.

As time went on, I got to know Tom in a different sort of way. I didn’t know anything about his upbringing, his family, his work, or what he enjoyed doing for fun. He didn’t say much. He was about 95 years old and lived in the room across from Mom. He loved to visit people, not to talk, but simply to show up in their rooms. Sometimes he would adjust the thermostat or move something around, convinced he was helping. Conversation wasn’t easy for him, but presence was something he offered freely.

Over the past year, I watched Tom age. I never saw family or friends visit him. Eventually, they placed him on hospice care so he would have someone who came specifically to spend time with him.

I often visited with him. I would ask him questions, push him in his wheelchair to wherever he pointed or nodded, or simply say hello. As time passed, he began falling asleep wherever he happened to be, often in positions that looked terribly uncomfortable. Many nights I came home and asked Heavenly Father if Tom could go home. His life seemed so hard, so lonely. It felt like he was simply existing.

Today I found out that Tom finally got to go home.

I will miss him. I came to love Tom, his quiet presence, his wandering visits, and the small ways I could help him. I am grateful he is now on the other side, reunited with family and friends who surely welcomed him with joy.

Jesus taught, “Love everyone; treat them kindly too.”
I didn’t realize it at first, but Tom became one of my teachers in that simple, profound commandment.

He reminded me that every soul matters to God, even the ones who seem forgotten by others. Tom didn’t have visitors that I observed. He didn’t have long conversations. He didn’t have the strength or clarity that I imagine he once had. But he had worth. He had dignity. And Heavenly Father saw him. Heavenly Father knew his name, even when he couldn’t say it clearly himself.

I asked him once about family. He told me he had three children and listed their names. “Oh, that’s wonderful,” I said. Later, a caretaker told me Tom only had one son, and none of the names he gave me matched. That brought a smile to my face. Maybe he was teasing me. Maybe those were grandchildren or great-grandchildren. Whatever the reason, it was a sweet moment.

Being part of Tom’s final season caused me to reflect on the end of our lives and how vulnerable, sacred, and tender those final chapters can be. It made me think of my own father, who passed away alone in a memory care facility during COVID because we were not allowed to be with him. That grief still sits in a quiet place inside me. Maybe that is why Tom’s loneliness touched me so deeply. Maybe that is why I felt such a pull to show up for him in the small ways I could whenever I was there serving my own mom.

I couldn’t be with my dad at the end, but I could be present for Tom. And in some way, that felt like a gift, one that softened something in me.

Through Tom, I learned that ministering isn’t always about words or big gestures. Sometimes it is simply showing up. Sometimes it is adjusting a wheelchair, offering a smile, or saying hello to someone who may not remember your name but remembers your kindness.

Tom reminded me that God places people in our path, not by accident but on purpose. And sometimes the lesson is simply this:

Love the one in front of you.
See the one others overlook.
Treat every soul like they matter, because they do.

I am grateful I had the chance to know Tom. And I look forward to seeing him again someday, whole and happy, in a place where no one is alone.