A Lab And Two Corgis: Finding God In The Chaos

I don’t know what you imagine a pastor’s life is like.  You probably imagine I spend a good deal of time in quiet contemplation and study as I prepare my weekly messages.  And when I’m not dispensing wisdom and radiating spiritually-driven leadership, I live a quiet, dignified and somewhat uneventful life.

That couldn’t be further from the truth.

We have somehow accumulated three dogs who have made it their personal mission to remind me daily that dignity is overrated. I usually blame my wife Valerie for this pack of chaos we live with, but the truth is, it's usually me.  One day I will learn to stay away from puppies.

There's Daisy who is an eight-year-old chocolate lab (Valerie's baby).  She weighs about as much as a small refrigerator and has the enthusiasm of a toddler on Christmas morning. Then there is Scooter (he has certainly become my dog).  He is a three-year-old corgi, and thinks of himself as a four-legged comedian who specializes in physical comedy.  And most recently, we’ve added Emma (she belongs to no mere human).  She’s about a year-and-a-half old and she’s like a little furry piranha that is at the source of just about every debate that comes up between the dogs.  She is tiny compared to the other two, but an absolute bully. She is also Scooter’s half-sister. 

One of the biggest challenges for me as a pastor, is getting out of the house wearing a black suit.  Now, for most people, putting on a suit is a straightforward operation. Shirt, pants, jacket, tie, shoes and done. But when you have three dogs it becomes an Olympic sport. The only way to get a gold medal in that sport is to avoid any contact with any of the three dogs from the time you start putting on the suit, until you leave the house.  If they jump up on you, you’ve got work to do with the lint-roller.  Same thing even if they brush up against your leg.  And if, by some unfortunate chance, they manage to jump up in your lap, you’ve probably got enough dog-hair to knit a sweater.  I keep lint rollers everywhere.  By the back door.  Car.  Study.  Office at the church.  In my bag.  

Daisy loves to ride in the car.  We’ve got a long history of taking rides together, and when I first became a pastor, I thought about bringing her along when I visited people—you know, kind of like a support dog.  But then I remembered the time some years ago when we were out on a drive and we saw Mrs. Davis out walking in town. 

Being a friendly person, I pulled over to say hello. Now, I should mention that Daisy was in the back seat, and she’s very friendly and loves people. As Mrs. Davis approached the car, I thought I'd give her a heads up, so I asked her, "Do you like dogs?" She paused, looked a bit uncomfortable, and said, "Well, no.  Not really.  I’ve never been a dog person."

The words had barely left her lips when Daisy, who apparently took this as a personal invitation, stuck her big square head right through the open rear window and licked Mrs. Davis from her chin to her forehead.  Mrs. Davis stood there dazed, and then started laughing. Really laughing.

“Was that a trick question?” she asked me. 

But after that, I thought twice about using the dogs in my ministry.  They’re just a little too intense. 

And writing sermons at my house is like trying to compose a symphony during a thunderstorm. Picture this: I'm sitting at my desk, Bible open, notebook ready, trying to craft something meaningful about peace, love, or the quiet voice of God. The house is perfectly silent. It's one of those rare moments when all three dogs are actually napping. And somewhere, off in the distance, I heard the rumble of a tractor.  We get a lot of that out here in the country, especially in spring and fall.  But none of these farmers have applied for, or been granted a permit to drive up and down the public road in front of our house by the canine tractor patrol unit--let alone actually drive those tractors off the road in the fields!

The moment they hear that engine, it's like someone has sounded the trumpet marking the beginning of the end times . Daisy launches into what I can only describe as her "tractor aria.” She has a deep, booming bark that could wake the dead. The corgis join in with their higher-pitched harmony, creating a canine chorus that would make Wagner weep.

Here's what I've learned from living with three dogs who have zero respect for pastoral dignity.  Joy isn't found in the perfect, controlled moments. It's not in the flawlessly delivered sermon or a pristine black suit. Joy lives in the chaos.  It lives in the unexpected face-licking, in the dog hair on your Sunday best, and in the tractor-barking symphony that interrupts your quiet contemplation.

The dogs have taught me that authenticity is more powerful than perfection. They've reminded me that laughter is indeed good medicine, and that taking yourself too seriously is a luxury you can't afford when you're sharing your life with a pack of wild animals.  I’ve also learned not to overspend on dress shoes, because the more you spend on them, the more likely it is they will be used as chew toys.

There are times when all of our lives feel chaotic, but sometimes in the midst of disruption we discover true JOY.  These harbingers of chaos remind me just about every day of what a beautiful mess it is being a human being, and one of God’s greatest gifts is the gift of laughter.  The divine doesn't just speak in whispers and stained-glass moments. Sometimes you find that in barks, and licked faces, or a black suit that needs a lint-roller.

~Pastor Todd Creason