I have written before about Bonnie-the-Dog, my faithful canine companion. She is the Ultimate Pet – a beautiful creature who exists exclusively for the giving and receiving of affection. Oh, okay, and for the occasional deep dive into the trash and resultant disgrace. But mostly the giving and receiving of affection.

Bonnie barks energetically whenever someone comes to the front door – doing a convincing impersonation of a serious guard dog. She keeps up the Dirty Harriet routine until the person (whomever he / she is – friend of the girls, pest control dude, serial murderer) is inside… at which point she drops the act and becomes Bonnie the Ultimate Pet who exists exclusively for the giving and receiving of affection. Ahem.

Bonnie may bark like she means business, but she doesn’t. She wants to be petted. She wants to follow her people around. Being herself means doing these things, so she does them.

Now, Bonnie has one behavioral quirk that contrasts starkly with her adorable / adoring status quo: she becomes a raving lunatic during storms.

In fact, storms transform her into a whining, trembling, pacing mess, and bring out destructive capacity from somewhere deep within her. 

One very sad time, she was alone in her crate during an afternoon storm. We arrived home to find the bars of said crate bent, the plastic of the tray under her bed chewed to smithereens, her sleeping-pad in fluffy tatters all over the room, and Bonnie herself bleeding from the gums – a casualty of her own neurotic gnawing.

Only one thing will calm Bonnie when she is in the throes of storm-schizophrenia… only one thing can restore her to her senses and allay her apocalyptic terrors… only one thing can stop the frenzied destructive venting…

What is that one thing?

Me.

It’s not as if the thunder ceases booming when I walk in the door… it’s not as if the lightning stops flashing weirdly or the rain ceases pounding. My presence makes no material difference to the circumstances that drive Bonnie wild.

And yet, when I am with her, for some mysterious reason known only to her sweet doggy-heart, being with me calms Bonnie. She reverts to her norm, the giving and receiving of affection.

More precisely, being with me restores Bonnie to herself. 

I attended a funeral recently. The deceased, Sharon Miller, had been a music teacher, a person of influence and impact in my Maggie’s life. She had died in cruel circumstances – her vibrant health devastated by a rare disease. In a span of mere months, she went from hiking in Colorado to being bed-bound and on a respirator.

Then she died.

Her adult children spoke at her funeral, and there was much that they said that was wise and beautiful – her life was a blessing, to be sure. But one testimony that several of them shared was especially profound:

When their mother was in her last days, unable to speak but determined to communicate nonetheless, she signed to them over and over again, “I am okay. And I am praying for you.”

This woman facing death, intubated and paralyzed, remained so much herself that she was reassuring and praying for her children.

What, I wondered, could possibly account for such astonishing spiritual equilibrium in the face of such monumental trials?

After the service, I was reflecting and praying. 

I recited the 23^rd Psalm to myself; it is soothing and centering. 

And I was startled into sudden recognition by a sentence mid-Psalm:

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
    He makes me lie down in green pastures;
he leads me beside still waters;
    he restores my soul.
He leads me in paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
    I fear no evil,
for you are with me;
    your rod and your staff,
    they comfort me.

You prepare a table before me
    in the presence of my enemies;
you anoint my head with oil;
    my cup overflows.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
    all the days of my life,
and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord
    my whole life long. 

“Even though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I will fear no evil – for you are with me.”  

You are with me.

You, God, are with me.

It hit me with tremendous force: the Psalmist’s reality was this precious woman’s reality… God was with her.

The Valley of the Shadow of Death, with all its medical interventions and loss of capacity and grief, simply could not compete with the presence of Jesus.

She loved Jesus most, always – and she knew He was with her.

Out of that knowledge, out of that security of togetherness, she could live her life to the very last second as herself… regardless of circumstances. Even in the valley. Even in the shadow.

It has struck me, multiple times, that I have a long, long way to grow in my faith.

Not only do I not have the strength of that dear saint who faced down death – I don’t even have the strength of faith of my own dog. 

The humiliating fact is that Bonnie believes in me more than I believe in God. 

How can this be possible?!? 

But the evidence declares it: when storms rage in my life, I am frequently – shamefully frequently – stuck in storm-schizophrenia of the worst sort, neurotically gnawing in perpetuity. 

Is God with me? 

Of course He is! 

Do I know He is with me? 

Of course I do! 

But the lunacy persists, nonetheless. 

The terror. The pacing. The whines.

The only real comfort I can cling to as I look at the evidence of my faithlessness is that God is faithful. No matter what. The comfort of that certainty segues quickly into thanksgiving:

Thank God that God has patience for the slow-learners like me. 

Thank God that His being with me is not dependent on my meriting His presence or even my recognition of His presence. 

Thank God that His being with me is a permanent condition – a guarantee, even.

He has loved me with an everlasting love. (Jeremiah 33:1) 

He will not leave me nor forsake me. (Deuteronomy 31:6)

And He offers me this assurance: He Who began a good work in me will continue to complete it until the day of Jesus Christ. (Philippians 1:6)

As I contemplate the present storms heaping up on my horizon, I realize that He leaves the choice to me. 

Will I fix my focus on the darkness, the cold, the howling winds? Will I be swept up into the frenzy and chaos? 

Or will I weather them with Him… will I abide with Him… will I stake myself on the certainty that He is with me?

I understand more clearly as I age: the only way for me to live through storms as my true self is for me to stake my security in Truth. And Jesus, with me, is the truest Truth there is.

So, I aspire to live like Bonnie the dog – with my peace and intact personality wholly dependent on the presence of my Person (for me, of course, that would be Jesus).

And I aspire to die like Sharon Miller – able to pray for those I love because of the way I know myself to be fully loved, wholly myself because I am wholly His own, to the very end.

May we live with Him.

May we die with Him!

And may we know ourselves known and cherished and absolutely safe, with Him, no matter what.

Because, He is with me. 

He is with you. 

He is with us.

Always.