I’ve struggled with anxiety for my entire life, and it took me a long time to stop feeling a vague sense of shame about that, especially since discovering that there were still Christians in the world who believed that anxiety like mine was caused by a lack of faith. I can’t think of a more misguided or hurtful thing than that to say to someone struggling against the waves of adrenaline in a panic attack, akin to telling an asthmatic that if they just prayed more, then they would breathe better. The truth is that God is not ignorant of my anxiety any more than he is ignorant about anything else in his creation. He knows me, He made me, and He doesn’t make mistakes.
Shortly after a bad spell that lasted a few months, I got it into my mind that we should get a dog. We already had three children, an elderly cat, a busy church to pastor and parents with various stages of failing health, but a dog seemed like a good idea to me all the same. We must have gone to the shelter a dozen times but nothing ever worked out. All around us people acquired pets, but I couldn’t seem to find the ‘right dog’. I didn’t want a small dog, but I didn’t want a big dog, either. I didn’t want one that shed everywhere. I didn’t want one that barked or jumped or did anything dangerous like run into traffic and I definitely did not want a dog with health concerns or one that would chase the cat. Also, two of my children were terrified of almost every dog they encountered. Oh, and I got unreasonably frustrated when a dog pulled too much on a leash, and I didn’t want a puppy.
In hindsight, I wouldn’t have pegged me for someone who should get a dog.
When we did go see a possible pet, I always found something wrong with the animal. This dog shed too much, and pulled when we walked. That one had a fatty lump on its torso and even though it was completely harmless it felt weird. I don’t know why I kept looking, since I seemed determined to find something wrong with every last creature.
Fast forward to the summer of 2019. I was helping out in the kitchen for vacation bible school when a friend of mine, who happens to breed dogs, mentioned one in conversation. Her name was Marilyn, and she was a four-year-old purebred poodle. She had had two litters, and now she was spayed and ready to find a forever home. At first I was very excited that Marilyn could be THE dog, but my anxiety grew as I talked to my friend over the next few weeks. How heavy was she? Gosh, she seemed bigger than I wanted. She was a poodle and I didn’t know if I really loved that breed. She was four years old, was that too old? Was it too young? Indecisive anxiety swirled around me and when Marilyn eventually arrived at our house for a two week trial I was a nervous wreck. I was afraid of everything you could be afraid of, but mostly I was afraid of disappointing my family if I said no another time.
What I didn’t, and couldn’t, have anticipated was that Marilyn had feelings too. She was happy to come over with her owner, but steadily more nervous as the visit progressed, and when the lady left without her, Marilyn was terrified.
One of my main reasons for adding an animal to our family was that it might benefit ME – I would be forced to go outside and walk the dog even if I felt anxious, for example. The dog would help me be brave. But looking at Marilyn, who had no idea what was happening to her, made my heart swell in a strange way I hadn’t expected. This dog needed me to be brave for HER. She was lonely and afraid and confused and she needed me.
That realization changed my heart. Marilyn was afraid of what was happening to her, and I was afraid of what was happening to me, but maybe we could be afraid together, and the company might be nice. She must have felt the same way because the second day she was here she decided that her mission in life was to be beside me at all times. No matter what. She waited for me to get out of the shower and she followed me from room to room and outside. My children started to joke that if you ever needed to know where mom was you could listen for the ‘click, click, click’ of dog toenails on the floor.
It’s been almost a year now. Marilyn jumps when she gets excited and she did growl once at the cat before he sorted her out on the household hierarchy. Sometimes she barks. She’s too big. Her hair grows at a phenomenal rate and when you cut it little bits get everywhere. She hates having baths. I’m not perfect either, though. I get stressed at phone calls and I bite my nails and frankly I’m getting pretty exhausted with all this bathing required by polite society myself. It turns out what I needed wasn’t the perfect dog, it was Marilyn, who needed me, too. Because God made both of us, and He doesn’t make mistakes.
In all my worries, I never expected that.
