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. I was typing away one night when Mojo leaped onto my lap and somehow managed to push Control+Alt+Delete, a sequence that completely shut my computer down. I kid you not. The dog had no sense of remorse whatsoever, just sat there begging to be scratched, unaware that it had erased the last hour of my life, and possibly some truly deep thoughts.
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.”
“That dog is a blessing,” Dad would say, and not just for the company, but for what she was teaching him about doubt and fear.
He had been experiencing his share of both lately.
One night, as Alzheimers’ began to rear its ugly head, Dad asked, “Do you have any books on doubt?”
His words caught me by surprise. My father? Doubt? Are you kidding? I am young enough to have doubts, but not this rock-solid Christian who has loved and served God for almost seven decades. Preaching when called upon. Telling others the certainty of what Christ has done for him. How many times did he tell me that our faith is a fact, not a feeling? Perhaps there is more of Thomas than Peter in him, after all.
Dad seemed to notice my raised eyebrows, so he voiced the question again: “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 Bible college I learned all the standard responses to doubt, but I’ve never encountered it in someone so near. Frederick Buechner calls doubt the, “ants in the pants of faith.” It’s like the stinging nettle on our golf course. You go looking for your lost ball and this pesky plant haunts you for the rest of the round, requiring that you spend more time scratching than shooting golf balls.
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, Phillips).
And God didn’t just use His Word. He used one of his tiny creatures too.
One June evening we were lounging on our covered deck, watching the sky change colour 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 OK?”
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 OK.”
