Closeness

a devotional for spring

My dear, patient Wildroot Parables readers…

I must beg your pardon for my lack of presence here, lately! Between life-happenings and some busyness and admin over at my fiction newsletter, the dear WP has been on the receiving end of a little benign neglect. My apologies!

But I’m back, and I hope you enjoy today’s devotional. May it bless your week, wherever these days take you.

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Photo by Maria Ionova on Unsplash

they say that the apostle 
leaned against the Savior's side
reclining at dinner, 

beloved, drawing near
to hear
the heartbeat
of the Friend he loved.

and sometimes when I am still, 
and all is summer-quiet, 
I can lean in and hear it:

a heartbeat, God's own
in the wheeling of the stars
and the singing of the spheres

and the blinking eyes of a doe
as she watches me
in the dusk;

we sigh, together
and she vanishes. 

Ever since we got him as a puppy, we often joke that our dog, Finn, is a “Velcro-dog”. He’s half Bernese Mountain Dog, which is a breed associated with a serious desire to be underfoot, and Finn certainly lives up to the type. While the quarter of his brain that is poodle gives him an endearing stubbornness and an independent streak, that Bernese-ness always brings him right back to being near his people, his favorite place. A little clingy, but in a loving way. Bonded.

But then, we got Huck, and clinginess took on a whole new meaning. 

If Finn is a Velcro-dog, Huck is an IV-drip-dog. She’s not happy unless she’s practically injected into your veins. As my best friend puts it: Huck isn’t happy unless her molecules are occupying the same space as your molecules. 

It’s genuinely adorable when she wants to put her sleepy face on my shoulder, lean against my side, or snuggle up on her back with her head in my lap. But she’s also still quite young for a Labrador (the breed we assume she is) and has an intense amount of energy and a puppyish lack of awareness for her body, which means I’m just as likely to get a paw in my eye and enough wiggle power to push me off the couch during a cuddle-session. 

She’s loving, but awkward. And sometimes (to my shame) I get frustrated when I’m trying to focus and she’s kicking me in the ribs with the pure gleeful excitement of her wiggling, or I feel like I need space and she insists on sticking to me like glue. My introverted-frustration alarm gets tripped when I’m being followed around the house, back and forth from my office to the kitchen over and over again, or breathed on by two dogs at the same time.

But then again, when my heart is tender enough to receive it, there are times when Huck is leaning on me while we’re watching a movie, and Finn is snuggled up next to my feet, and I am reminded about how God is never frustrated by my own clumsy desire for closeness. My constant attempts to draw near to Him, despite my knock-knees and my puppyish floundering.

Because I am loving, but awkward. I fidget and wiggle and fuss, unaware of how much space I take up. I kick and I cuddle and I struggle to learn, and yet God never moves away, never ignores, never rolls eyes or purses lips. Patient, He accepts every wild motion, every indelicate mistake, every flaw, and only draws me closer still. 

I am human, and prone to impatience. I push away when I can stand it no longer. But I am also learning that there is beauty in closeness from the best of teachers, the most humble: all fur, all wagging tail and flicking ear and soulful eye, all love.

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