Yesterday afternoon Sikki went to pick up a little puppy that an acquaintance needed to give away. The puppy was owned by an older lady with growing health problems who is married to a man subject to angry outbursts — apparently he may have beaten the dog when it peed on the floor or whatever. The lady, realizing she was unable to give the dog proper training because of her physical condition, contacted me on Facebook and sent a picture of the dog, asking if I knew of anyone who might want him. I forwarded the text to my wife and her first response was, “That dog is ugly…lol.”
Imagine my surprise that she later said, “He’s so ugly he’s cute.” I wondered allowed if that kind of sentiment was how she ended up going out with me way back when. Anyway, she then took initiative to contact the lady and brought the dog home last night. The people who owned him were calling him “Tater,” but I have named him “Trevor.” He is five months old, and weights five pounds.
We bought Rebekah a dog when she was a young girl and named her Maggie. She is very pretty, though she sheds terribly. She has been in our family for most of my children’s memory. But Sikki has always complained about Maggie’s hair being everywhere.
This new dog is a Chihuahua/Poodle mix. I hate Chihuahuas, so hopefully the poodle side will prevail. Since the dog may have been abused, he is very skittish and afraid of people.
Last night over dinner we had a conversation about anger, about people who are prone to sudden fits of rage and outbursts over minor things. I think the root of that kind of visible, disconcerting anger is unforgiveness — people choose to carry around the slights and woundings they have received, perpetually feeling the injustice, unfairness and hurt, rather than releasing all of it to God. My father was one of those people: as a child I was often terrified and helpless at the receiving end of his rage. He refused to forgive his father. My Grandpa Hobbs died on Thanksgiving Day in 2005 and my dad followed him into eternity three days later. There is a reason we are commanded to forgive people — it is not an option for a believer. Because failure to obey Jesus in this regard shuts us in to a prison of our own making: we can never get close to people, never love, never feel like we are loved.
This morning I read in 2 Chronicles. The story of Rehoboam is one of the saddest and most telling of what happens when we succeed and forget about God. It is a Saturday in man’s measurement of time.