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In the corral gate, at the top of a hill, Molly the border collie sat like an ink etching on a sky canvas. One ear was cocked, the other hung down, and her wind-ruffled hair was the only hint of movement. She sat perfectly still, but not because she wanted to. She wanted to be part of all I was doing in the hot August sun: unsaddling a horse, pouring cold water on its sweaty back, currying it off, and turning it out after a hard, hot day.
She wanted to simply be Molly—smiling, dancing Molly—sounding the “strangers arriving” bark, chasing songbirds, herding cows, going when sent, coming when called, Molly. But she could not. Backhoe wheels and little racing dogs are a bad thing, and broken ribs a painful thing. So, she sat, unable to do more yet needing more. Needing love, needing affirmation, needing attention, needing all the things she got when she was active and doing. The yearning in her eyes, a small whine, a feeble step, and my compassion welled up into words. “Sit still Molly, I’ll come to you,” I said.
Just then, a voice inside me broke through the pain and depression piled up like tumbleweeds against a barbed-wire fence. The wheels of the world and racing humans are a bad thing and a broken spirit, a painful thing. Unable to do, unable to serve, but wanting all the affirmation that comes with it. I sat on the ground with my arms around Molly and heard my Savior’s gentle whisper, “Sit still, and I will come to you.”
“The Lord upholds all who fall and raises up all who are bowed down…..He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” Psalm 145:14 & 147:3
© 2002 Jean Nelsen
