The kids and I visited the Huron Humane Society in Alpena
last week, beginning our search for the Perfect Family Dog. As we entered the
building, houndy voices rowfed and barooed from an unseen back room.
A smiling young man in a colorful wool hat bounced over to
serve as our tour guide. We followed him past several cages of adorable young
cats, trying not to look too closely into their mesmerizing, take-me-home eyes.
“In here,” our young man in the cap called cheerily. “Let me
know if you have any questions.” He opened a door.
Instantly, what had been noisy became bedlam. Before we even
entered the dog room the inhabitants were welcoming us, barking and baying and
nearly shaking the walls in their enthusiasm. The pandemonium was nearly
overwhelming, but we boldly stepped in and began to introduce ourselves to the
dogs.
Animal shelters are a blessing, and I deeply admire and
appreciate the people who run them. But they can be a hard place to visit. The
dogs spend most of their time looking at bars and cement, and while they are
not miserable, they would much rather be somewhere else. I knew that going into
that room was going to be hard on my heart.
Some of the dogs I could pass by with only a friendly word,
but a few earnest faces made me pause. There was Carla, who covered my fingers
with kisses. Rusty’s fascinating multicolored eyes promised to chase balls all
day if only we would let him out. Marley’s gentle paw on my wrist said she
would love me forever.
It was time to go. Most of the dogs had settled down and
given up barking. They just looked at us, furry bodies pressed up against the
metal that held them in, following us with entreaty in their eyes: “Let me out.
Set me free. Please, take me home.” I wanted to adopt them all.
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Sometimes, on a difficult day, I look around me and see only
bars and cement.
Some days I’m in a prison of my own making; my misuse of
time and poor decisions leave me sorrowing and defeated. Sometimes I’m trapped
by forces outside myself. A failing body, an emaciated checkbook, a series of
mishaps that overcome optimism can all leave me helpless and hopeless, crying
out for rescue.
With David I call out to my maker, “Set me free from my
prison, that I may praise your name.” Psalm 142:7
We plead for Someone to open the door of our cells. Lord, we
pray, ease my pain. Take away my suffering. Help me find my car keys. Let me
out of this prison in which I do not belong. I’ll be so grateful, so
well-behaved, so totally Yours. Just let me out.
I do, eventually, find my car keys. I do make it past the
financial crisis, past the sick body and the aching heart. I’m set free. I can
run and play and be happy.
And with the first rush of freedom, when my troubles melt
away and I can breathe freely again, I go off skipping and rejoicing and
completely forgetting that I ought to take a moment to say thank you to the One
who has secured my release.
We forget our promises. We forget to praise His name, as we
ought. And yet, our loving Lord gives us freedom upon freedom, offering us healing
and comfort and pardon.
Yes. Freedom. We are not abandoned, rejected and unwanted. Our
maker looked at our pleading eyes and helpless hearts and chose to take us home
and make us His. He paid the adoption fee with the life of His own Son. We are
released forever from the prison of sin, from the sorrow of separation from the
One who loves us and who we are privileged to love in return.
There will be hurts. There will be lost hope and lost car
keys. But we are not imprisoned. We are not alone, barred in and pleading for
someone to come love us. We have been rescued; we have been adopted; we are at
home in the heart of our loving Lord.
Kinda makes me wish I had a tail to wag.
First published in the Alpena News, March 9, 2013
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