Church Dog

Church Dog
Sunday mornings are a leisurely time in many households, but they certainly weren't in our Ogilvie, Minnesota home back in the late 1920s.
Church services began at nine-thirty in the morning. Mother was the organist, so she had to be there early. That meant all of us kids had to be washed and dressed with our hair neatly combed by the time Mother left the house.
As you'd expect, there was a lot of hurrying around to make sure everyone was ready on time. That was trouble enough, but one day, we had another problem on our hands: our dog, Brownie.
Every morning, Brownie was let out by the first person who got up. When we called him back in, he'd usually come running right away, but not on this particular Sunday.
We called and coaxed for as long as we could, but Brownie was simply nowhere to be found. Unable to locate our disappearing dog, we gave up in despair and headed off to church, leaving Brownie outdoors somewhere.
We arrived at church and got settled in, with Mother at the organ. After some hymns and prayers, the minister began his sermon. We kids tried to sit still, just as we had been told to do, and not fidget. But as the preacher began to warm to his subject, I thought I heard something unusual. No one else seemed to hear it though. But then it came again, louder. It sounded like something was scratching at the church door. We kids all exchanged silent glances and stifled our giggles. Then the scratching sound was followed by the plaintive sound of a lonely dog howling. All the grown-ups pretended not to hear anything, leaning forward in their pews so that they could hear every word of the minister's oration. But we kids knew that howl. Only one dog in the neighborhood made that sound.
The wailing continued and the minister paused for a moment, furrowing his brow in frustration. He didn't want to have to compete with a howling hound, so he signaled to the usher to open the door and shoo the dog away. But the usher was not quick enough for Brownie. As soon as he opened the door, in bounded our dog with a smug look on his face! He strolled up the aisle, cool as you please, as the congregation and minister looked on aghast. When Brownie got to where Mother sat at the organ, he just plopped down and sat quietly. A murmur went around the church and there were some smiles and nodding of heads. The minister, determined to ignore this unusual canine caper, resumed his sermon.
The following Sunday happened to be one of those rare Sundays when we didn't go to the morning service. However, no one had informed Brownie of the change in our schedule. After we attended the evening service, we heard the story. In the morning, Brownie had made a commotion at the church door until once again, he was let in. Again, he sauntered down the aisle until he reached the organist, who was about to begin playing. Brownie stood stock-still for a moment, staring at the female organist. Then when he had determined to his satisfaction that she was definitely not Mother, he returned to the church door and made it clear that he was not interested in attending this particular service.
There were many Sundays when Brownie repeated his demonstrations of religious piety and family loyalty. As you can imagine, this was quite embarrassing for Mother. There were some people who weren't all that happy to see a dog in church. And each time we got a new preacher, Mother had to explain our unusual dog to him. Since Brownie lived to be nineteen years old, quite a few preachers got used to having that little brown dog interrupt their Sunday services.
Shortly after Brownie passed away, our minister came to call. After consoling us over our loss, he said, "If there is a heaven for dogs, you can be assured Brownie will be scratching at the door, and when it is opened, he will be given a place right up front with the best of them."

Thought this was a cute story for all the little ones....enjoy~~~!
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Age

Age
A glance in the mirror. Simple, yet altering somehow. I see that I am not the little girl I once was, yet I can still see me there. Bright, happy.

But wait, I pause to truly see the me I am today…lines and wrinkles mar the unspoiled face of childhood, showing the many paths I could have chosen.
I am not sixteen, I am not twenty one, and I am no longer fifty. Time has marched across my body and I can scarcely remember the land of childish memories.
As I continue to gaze in the reflection, I see the features of family older and wiser in the shape and contour of my face. These family members remain while others reside in my memory only.

One day, those gathered in my mind will be the stuff of legend with a bit of fable thrown in. Family stories will be passed along to those who never knew the flesh and blood reality. Given enough time, most will be forgotten.

This chance encounter with the me in the mirror brings about a midlife crisis of sorts. I find myself needing to make a choice. I can mimic the me I recall in faulty memory or I can attempt to honor the memory of those I have known being more like them. Yet, neither choice seems entirely agreeable. Perhaps there is another choice.

The good old days are often the best of memories, sifted often and embellished with time. The future holds much promise, dreams, adventure, danger, new generations who do not see eye to eye with the past, declining health, perhaps loss of job, loss of memory and loss of my spouse.

My life is neither at the beginning and it may not be at the end. God delights in the heart of a child, so I choose that heart. God delights in maturity, so I chose this path.

God gave Moses his greatest assignment at the age of 80, Abraham became a parent at 100, Paul and John wrote significant words later in life. Through aches and pains, flesh thorns and heartache, God used these men.

I will not cower at the thought of the coming years. I want to run eagerly to my Home and take His assignments gladly. I want to do so willingly.

Rather than looking back at the way things were, I want to look ahead to the way things could be. I want the heart of a child and the maturity of a wise person. I want to greet each day with a willingness to pursue the adventure called life. I won’t do it by acting like someone half my age. I will do it with the help of an ageless God who loves me and understands that I am but dust.

I will associate with younger people. I will need to know what they think and how they see their world. I will surround myself with older people. I will need the wisdom they can offer. I will not contribute to the widening of the generation gap.

The me in the mirror is not what I once was. The me in the mirror is not the final word on who I will become. The me in the mirror is simply a reflection of today. A day that the Lord has made for my enjoyment and, more importantly, His purpose.

I turn and walk away from the mirror with a smile on my face. I have things to do. I have things to learn. I must not waste so much precious time.