We have a dog by the name of Mojo, which is a Bible name, of course. Named after Moses and Jonah (Moses who stuttered, and Jonah who ran away from home a lot), this Maltese-Shih Tzu lap dog does not appreciate my laptop computer. When my father was alive, Mojo was his biggest fan, following him around their suite, grinning up at him past crooked teeth, and pouncing on his lap. The two sat by the window happily munching bananas, lost in a one-sided conversation.
Dad loved the old saying, “If you can start the day without caffeine, live without complaining, eat the same food every day and be grateful, relax without liquor, and sleep without the aid of drugs, you are probably the family dog.”
One night, as Alzheimers' began to rear its ugly head, Dad asked, “Do you have any books on doubt?”
“I think so,” I said. “Uh … is it for a research project?”
“It's for me,” he said, unashamed.
In my study, I managed to locate two good books on the topic. Dad thanked me for them, but a few days later when the subject arose, he didn't mention the books. Instead, he gave me a verse he had handwritten on a piece of paper and was carrying in his pocket. A verse from Psalm 23:
“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”
One word was underlined: surely.
David did not say, “You know, it is quite likely that goodness and mercy may possibly, perhaps, probably, if I'm really lucky, follow me around for a week or two.”
No, the verse speaks with assurance that God's goodness will provide, that His mercy will pardon. Forever.
Amid the unnerving changes in his life, Dad needed the promise of a changeless God. With his memory beginning to fail, he found comfort in meditating on the “one with whom there is never the slightest variation or shadow of inconsistency” (James 1:17).
One June evening we were lounging on our covered deck, watching the sky change color in the west. Ragged edges of black appeared over the Rockies, growled a warning, and started their slow march toward us. Mojo was slumped on Grandpa's lap, but once the clouds rattled with thunder, she began to shake like she had one paw in a light socket.
“It'll be okay,” Dad whispered, patting her ewok head reassuringly. But she wouldn't be comforted. “I've got you, don't worry,” he murmured, massaging her shoulders. But she wouldn't listen. An irrational fear had gripped her tiny body. She trembled. She shook. She panted. And as the clouds tumbled closer and the rain touched down, she leaped from his lap, darted under a wheelbarrow, and refused to come out.
Dad leaned forward. “Don't be silly,” he said, shaking his head. “It's gonna be okay.”
“So do you think God feels a little like we do right now?” I suggested. “Trying to comfort frightened creatures who can't understand what's going on? Do you think he's trying to tell us to trust him? That's it's gonna be okay?”
I think it's the only time I ever preached to my dad. He looked my way, and a smile pulled at the corners of his eyes. I know for a fact that the doubts lingered and the questions remained unanswered. But when the storm ended and the dog hopped on his lap, the doubts seemed to fade into insignificance. As he held the dog close, I thought of our heavenly father who holds us in his arms amid life's storms, whispering, “Don't be silly, my child. It's gonna be okay.”
