[Faith-talk] Good Night Message for Friday, February 15, 2013

[Paul]

Hello and good day, morning, afternoon or evening to all of you, wherever in this world you happen to reside.  I hope that, by God's matchless grace and His providential care, that your day is going well or went well.

A person by the name of Summer Sheldon of Silverton, Oregon, someone with whom I am not acquainted, wrote today's story entitled "Leap of Love," rendered as follows:

It should have been the perfect date for Ryan and me, a late summer hike through majestic Silver Falls State Park, the largest in Oregon.  The scene around us was out of a nature film:  a thick forest of dark, moss-covered evergreens, dewy, drooping ferns and fluorescent clovers lining the trail.  We strolled alongside a gurgling creek, walking my brothers dog, Little Pig, who stopped now and again to sniff a random flower or patch of grass.  A romantic, serene moment.  Except Ryan just had to bring up what was bothering him.  What was bothering me too.  "All I'm saying is it doesn't feel like you're that into me sometimes," Ryan said.

I sighed.  "Can we change the subject?" Ryan just stared at the ground.  Little Pig caught up to us and rubbed against Ryan's leg.  It was surprising how well he'd taken to Ryan, showering him with affection.  I, on the other hand, couldn't be so bold.  I did love Ryan, but I hadn't been able to show it.  Commitment.  The word scared me.  I didn't think I would commit to anyone.  Was it unfair to lead Ryan on? Walking the trail, I felt like we were headed toward a breakup.  I pulled a couple paces ahead.  It had been the same story since I was 16.  That was when my parents announced they were going to take a 3-month "trial separation." I thought my parents had a good marriage and loved each other, but within two weeks they both had lawyers and couldn't have a conversation that didn't become a screaming match.  They attacked one another and accused me of taking sides.  If I couldn't trust my parents' love, then whose love could I trust? The one thing I held onto was my trust in God.  Of that I was pretty certain.  But to take that leap and trust another human being with my deepest desires frightened me.  Every time I got close to a guy, I pulled away.

Even sweet Ryan.  When I met him in college, I took it slow.  I came up with different degrees of relationships, "serious friending" came before "casual dating," which progressed into "serious dating," before I was willing to be called his girlfriend.  Ryan put up with my silliness over the last two years, but I knew it was hard for him whenever he said he loved me and I couldn't say it back.  A walk through the park with Little Pig could lighten the mood, I thought.  But now I'd hurt Ryan again.  God, I prayed silently, help me not feel this fear.  Help me learn how to love him.  To trust.  Silently, Ryan and I followed the trail as it dipped beneath the 30-foot-high bridge for the Silver Falls Highway that cuts through the park.  We came out on the other side and I looked for Little Pig.  The trail was empty.  "Did you see where he went?" I asked.  Ryan shook his head.

"Little Pig!" he called.  I echoed him.  But Little Pig didn't come running.  "Maybe he chased a squirrel or something," Ryan said.  "Don't worry, we'll find him."

He's never run off before, I thought.  I wouldn't have been surprised six months earlier, when my brother first found him.  Back then, Little Pig was a half-starved blue heeler, with a torn ear and an open patch marking, that my brother found abandoned in a grocery store parking lot.  He wasn't that well behaved at the time.  He backed away from strangers and didn't always obey.  He'd clearly been abused.  The sight of someone using a broom would set him off barking.  But slowly Little Pig's behavior improved as he learned to trust the people in his life.  I couldn't imagine him not responding to his mother.  "Little Pig!" I shouted again, jogging up the trail.  I stepped off the trail into the bushes.  "Little Pig!" No answer.  Could he have gotten lost? Did he fall into the creek? I couldn't think to think about it.  He was my brother's dog, but he felt like mine too.

I was the one who gave him his name.  One day I was playing with him outside, laughing as he rolled around in the dirt.  "You're as happy as a little pig!" I said.  The name stuck.  This summer I worked at the same job as my brother and hung out with Little Pig every day.  We becane pals.  I'd feed him some of my sandwich at lunch; he'd rest his head in my lap.  What if we don't find him? Tears started to pool in my eyes.  Ryan put his arm around me.  "Don't cry, Summer.  You know what? He's probably looking for us." I looked at Ryan.  Something about his voice, his smile, the way he held me was so reassuring.  I could feel that flutter in my heart, telling me Ryan was the one, but like all those other times, I was still too afraid to say a thing.  "Let's go back to the bridge," Ryan said.  "He's probably there waiting."  We walked back under the bridge.  We both heard it at the same time.  Is that a wine? Where is it coming from? Just then a loud screech came from the bridge above.  A car swerving.  I looked up.  Oh, no! There was Little Pig, his gray nose sticking through the guardrail.  He must've gone up the steep embankment when we went down and couldn't figure out how to get back.  I called to him, "Little Pig!"

He perked up immediately, turned his head and looked straight down at me and Ryan, standing on the trail 30 feet below.  Then he took a step back from the rail, paused for a second and dashed forward.  What is he....  Before I could tell him to stay, he sprung off his hind legs and hurled his 40-pound body up into the air, over the rail.  I couldn't breathe.  I watched helplessly as he plummeted toward the creek below.  He hit the water with a splash.  Ryan and I raced into the water after him.  I pictured myself carrying his shattered body back to the car.  Were there any vets nearby? How could I've been so stupid as to let him off his leash?

Suddenly, Little Pig's head popped up in the water.  His paws paddled wildly toward us, his pink tongue hanging out, and what looked for all the world like a goofy smile on his face.  Ryan reached out and grabbed him.  The second we climbed out onto the bank, Little Pig jumped on me, licking my face, relieved to have found us.  I laughed in disbelief.  "Sit! I need to check if anything's broken!" I demanded.  But he was so happy, he wouldn't stop bouncing around.  "He seems fine to me," Ryan said.  "It's a miracle."  No doubt it was.

Only God could've guided Little Pig's path.  Ryan helped me up and we walked back to the car, keeping a close eye on Little Pig.  I couldn't stop thinking about what that crazy dog had done.  A dog that had suffered terrible unkindness made a fearless leap.  Fearless because he trusted.  Trust cancels fear.  Was that the lesson, the answer to my prayer? I stopped walking and put my arms around Ryan.  Maybe it was time to take a leap of my own.

Now that was somewhat long, I know, but there were several lessons that maybe you gleaned from reading this story.  As Little Pig trusted Ryan and Summer, so should we trust God for both the big and little things in our lives.  And don't forget that the name Fido means "trust" in, I think, Latin.  Maybe you can come up with other lessons learned from this story.  I pray that you did.

And now may the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob just keep us safe, individually and collectively, throughout this night or day and especially in these last days in which we live.  Your Christian friend and brother, Paul