Barking dogs, cawing crows… and St. Paul’s promise
by Pringle Franklin
As St. Paul tells us, the Godhead works all things together for good for those who love Him. (Romans 8:28) Christians often seek comfort from this verse when a crisis hits. Yet, this promise also covers ordinary nuisances — the mislaid car keys, the untimely visit of a loquacious friend, the tedious doldrum of a big traffic jam, the spilled coffee that requires a sudden change of clothes. Mundane frustrations are not always mere chance, and if our eyes are open, we might just uncover an unexpected blessing.
When we learn to view life’s small bumps through the lens of trust, submitting to God’s quotidian will instead of trying to seize control, then our lumps of coal can be turned into diamonds.
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This past week, I experienced two examples of God’s loving handiwork, packaged in the disguise of unwelcome disruption; oddly, both involved animals. Tuesday evening, I launched the first session of a women’s group to study my book, Hope & Healing in Marriage. I have taught from the book in church settings, both in Charleston and Paris, France. With the pandemic forcing us to cozy up to computer conferencing, it actually felt natural to offer a class via Zoom.
Of course, when folks are sitting in their kitchens, bedrooms, cars, or on their front porches, you’ll get some interesting interruptions from the world around them.
That evening, we were just plunging into the opening chapter, about a 20th high school reunion and a woman’s romantic feelings for her old flame. As we discussed the story, Ronnie sat in her backyard, her large, frisky dog romping in and out of the Zoom footage. Suddenly, back-and-forth barking dominated the soundscape. I didn’t have a clear view of the yard, but it looked like an interloper had padded into her dog’s territory. And as dogs will do, he was getting more and more revved up about whomever had raised his hackles.
The discussion lurched to a halt as Ronnie jumped up to take herself, the computer, and the barker into her house. Her Zoom feed projected grainy photos of the moving ground, the bottom of the opening door, the corner of the kitchen ceiling, and other fractured images, as she wrangled the yapping dog inside.
During this brief pause, I glanced at my phone and found an incoming text. Someone was trying to join us; she needed the meeting link. Without the canine-supplied interruption, I would have missed seeing this in time. Instead, almost as if by magic, a new smiling face soon appeared in one of the “Hollywood Squares” of our Zoom meeting.
It warmed my heart — and amused me — how the dog participated in making this happen. And the barking didn’t last long. God is a fast worker!
Something similar happened the following morning with a wild bird; we were spending the week up at the Outer Banks, in a quiet cottage by the shore. Oh, but the sleeping is good here. The sound of the rolling surf enters through the window screens, lulling the senses and effusing the room with a calming vibration. Often we snooze until almost 9 o’clock, something we never do at home.
In this remote setting, where the sand, sun, and sea gulls beckon, even the days of the week blur; time slows down, and the quiet flow of the present moment becomes my focus. I can sit for hours and read, pray, think, sometimes simply watching the motion of the waves.
Luckily, before falling asleep, my relaxed brain managed to remember that it was a Wednesday night. I lead a Centering Prayer group at 8 a.m. on Thursdays, also via Zoom. In this idyllic setting, that hour feels crazy-early, especially with the October days growing shorter; even Mr. Sun doesn’t peep over the oceanic horizon until after seven o’clock. I set my alarm accordingly.
In the pre-dawn, refreshing morning air was circulating in the bedroom through a few partially-open windows. I was lost in blissfully deep slumber, snug under my covers. Until — a shrill voice called out.
Caw-Caw-Caw. It must have been a crow, perched near the house.
Disoriented and groggy, I rolled slightly, trying to shake off the uninvited squawker. Yet the bird was insistent, her proclamations growing louder.
CAW.
CAW.
CAW.
She refused to shush. I blinked, then opened my eyes. The blinds were down and slanted; through the slats, a faint glow of morning light oozed into the dim, wood-paneled bedroom. What time was it anyway?
My phone was five or six steps away, connected to an outlet beyond the foot of the bed. I fibbed to myself: it was still early. I did not need to get up and check the phone’s clock. The crow flew away, and a blessed silence returned. Just as I resettled into the comfy pillow, the phone’s alarm erupted in ringing trills. Ugh! There was no escaping my fate.
After I was up and moving around the kitchen, I reassessed the visit of the early bird. Perhaps, she was a gift. Perhaps, I needed the double shot of wake-up calls. God’s plan was generous. There was enough time to enjoy my much-needed mug of coffee before opening Zoom.
