As I’ve said, I live way out in the country on two and a half acres of woods with a winding creek and a small wood house I call home—The Blair Witch Project. It’s a perfect setting for dogs, and normally, I take them outside and watch them run around and perform their regular constitutionals before coming inside.
Years ago, I decided to stand inside the door rather than venture out into the misty weather. One day my Jack Russell terrier, Gitli (Cherokee for “Dog”), a tornado of teeth and toenails, seemed to be taking a lot more time than usual to come back to the house. I went out looking for him.
I finally located him behind my house. He must have wandered there and encountered my neighbor’s two dogs. Because I wasn’t there to stop them, they brutally attacked and killed my precious pet. I’ve never gotten over that experience. Now I never, under any circumstances, let my pooches go out, rain, shine, sleet, snow, or ice, unless I’m there with them.
A while ago, I took two of my six out. My little blind one, the tiny rat terrier, Gawasi (Cherokee for “Grace”), was barking at me to pick her up, so I did. I carried her into the house.
Falkor wasn’t out of my sight for more than one minute. He is what my veterinarian calls a Labasset: a Labrador head and a basset hound body. Completely black. Weirdest-looking dog ever!
I went outside to bring him back in, and he had apparently, and ill-advisedly, decided to go on an exploration adventure.
He never wanders far, never out of my line of vision. I calmly checked all the usual places he went, including the burn pile and the creek. I called and called. I walked around my next-door neighbor’s house and to the street behind, where I’d found Gitli in a field years ago. I immediately began to tense up. I could feel anxiety and fear rising up my shoulders and into my throat. My mouth went dry, and my heart raced as the minutes turned into hours. I got in my car and drove around the neighborhood, looking for any sign of him. I stopped to ask neighbors if they had seen him: a black Labasset with a red collar.
Kids were playing in the front yard of the house where the dogs had killed Gitli. The owners of those dogs had moved out, and the youngsters were new to the neighborhood. I stopped my car, stuck my head out the window, and asked if they had seen a black dog with a red collar. They were sweet. They walked to my car and said no dog had come by with that description, but they would be on the lookout for him and bring him home if he came over.
I glanced up to see their father standing on the front porch. I yelled, “I promise I’m not a predator! I’m really looking for my dog. I live right behind you. I love Jesus, and I’m in the choir.”
He smiled and gave me the thumbs-up sign. I thanked the kids for helping me search.
Then I hollered up at their father, “By the way, they probably still shouldn’t walk up to the car of someone they don’t know!”
He laughed and said, “You’re absolutely right.”
I drove on down the road a bit, turned around, and headed back. As I passed, I saw the father on his knees with his kids, obviously having a pertinent and timely discussion. They all smiled and waved.
I was beginning to panic. I walked through the woods all around my house, screaming Falkor’s name, the whole time praying, Please let him come home. Please let him be okay.
My brain reeled with unsubstantiated, unhealthy thoughts. What if those neighbors with the pit bull tied in front of their house down the way are actually dogfighters? What if they caught Falkor for bait? Possible but totally irrational. I couldn’t stop praying. The what-ifs were not impossible. Not probable but possible.
I came home, sat on the front porch, and drank Dr. Pepper and prayed. More than two hours passed. He never had been gone so long. My whole body trembled. I couldn’t get past the awful thoughts and pictures in my head.
I finally realized the experience was entirely out of my control. I knew the only place I could go was to the Lord. And I didn’t need to be alone with my fear and anxiety, so being the junkie that I am, I went to social media and posted Falkor’s picture. I asked my friends to pray with me.
Immediately, posts began to pop up from my precious friends and family: “Praying for a safe return,” “Praying,” “What a horrible feeling. Praying,” “Oh, Tim, I’m so heartbroken,” and “Praying for Falkor’s safe return and peace for you.” They went on and on.
At that point, I realized my entire body had reacted to fear. I realized my brain, which is supposed to be used for problem-solving, was being bombarded by the what-ifs, which are never good in a situation like that.
I thought of 2 Corinthians 10:5 (ESV): “We destroy arguments and every lofty opinion raised against the knowledge of God, and take every thought captive to obey Christ.”
I always believed that verse was just for evil thoughts concerning unforgiveness, lust, or any number of ungodly mental failures. It never occurred to me that it could refer to fear. Fear and anxiety are as faithless as any other feelings and are equally capable of pulling me out of obedience to Jesus.
I realized I had many faithful believers who loved me and were petitioning our Father and going to him on my behalf. They were all praying over something that would seem a trivial matter to most people. I felt my heart slow down, my chest untighten, my breathing go back to some semblance of normal, and the sweating stop. I closed my eyes. Lord, I can’t control this. I have to let it go. I just ask that you hear the prayers of your people.
It seemed everything slowed down for a while. It wasn’t that I was okay with my sweet little pooch being lost. I just knew the One who’d created Falkor was in control no matter what.
About four hours later, as l watched the sunset, I still needed God’s presence. Every time I felt the fear begin to bubble up, I would pray, Give me your peace.
Then, about eight o’clock, up sauntered Falkor, soaked. Obviously, he had been swimming in the creek. He looked obnoxiously sheepish.
When he saw me sitting on the deck, he stopped short. He knew he was in trouble. I just let him stand there, dripping, staring at me, while I calmly went to social media on my phone and let everyone know he was home safe. Then I hugged him while people all over the world typed, “Yay,” “Hallelujah,” and “I’m so glad. Praise God!”
The next day, there were still consequences from my letting fear take the place of faith no matter the outcome. My body literally ached. I was sore all day long.
Once again, obedience to Christ is proven through my weakness.
My memory verse this week is Isaiah 41:10 (MSG): “You’re my servant, serving on my side. I’ve picked you. I haven’t dropped you. Don’t panic. I’m with you. There’s no need to fear for I’m your God. I’ll give you strength. I’ll help you. I’ll hold you steady. I’ll keep a firm grip on you.”
A few weeks ago, between services at church, I listened to a message on my phone from the correctional unit where I do volunteer work. It was my weekend to be on call. An inmate’s cousin had died at a correctional unit where she was incarcerated in Missouri, and I was to inform him of her death. It’s never easy. But I’ve done so many of these interviews over the years that it’s not as devastating as it once was. I have the conversation down, and I can pretty much do it by rote. I fight not to become so callous that it ever becomes just a nuisance or even an inconvenience.
My plan for the evening included teaching at the women’s unit just down the road from the men’s. That gave me a convenient opportunity to meet with the gentleman who’d lost his cousin. Although it was hard, he handled the news reasonably well. His cousin’s death was not expected. I gave him a few minutes on the phone with his family to grieve together. Those few moments are genuinely touching.
Then, before the evening service, I settled down to put final touches on my notes for the service. I called a couple of inmates, my cofacilitators who lead Celebrate Recovery with me, down to the office so we could start planning our upcoming step-study. About the time we got into the planning, I got a call from the women’s unit. One of the ladies there had lost a family member, and I needed to come talk to her before she could read the obituary in the newspaper the following day.
I sent the guys back to their barracks and sat back in the chair. My stomach churned. This one seemed impossible. Reporting the death of a cousin couldn’t hold a candle to what I needed to tell Traci.
I drove the quarter mile to the women’s unit, and as I walked through the chain-link gate, all I could do was pray. I told God this one was too hard. I didn’t want to do this one. I wasn’t angry; I just felt an overwhelming fear, leading to almost immediate weariness. I recognized the pattern.
I walked into the barracks area and told the officers the purpose of my visit. I usually take the inmates into the chaplain’s office alone, break the news, give them a few minutes to process, let them call a loved one, pray with them, and send them back to their barracks. This was different.
I asked the officers if one or two of them could stand outside the door in case Traci became too inconsolable. The captain walked to the barracks door and called her name: “Mason, to the chaplain’s office.”
There are a few things I can count on when I have to deliver devastating news to inmates. First, if they’re called to the chaplain’s office, there’s a 99 percent chance it’s not going to be good news. I’ve done so many of these interviews that I know the thought process as they approach me. They are running through a litany of people in their lives, wondering who it could be. Who’s been sick? Who’s oldest? Was there some kind of accident? An overdose? Murder?
As they approach, I see the excruciating anxiety and fear in their faces. They search my eyes for any sign or clue as to whom they are about to begin grieving.
I also know they are lining themselves up internally. No matter what the news, the inmates can’t show their grief. They can’t show weakness or fear of any kind. They can’t allow anyone in to walk with them, for fear of owing.
My heart broke as Traci walked toward me. I introduced myself. “Hi, Traci. I’m Chaplain Tim. How are you today?”
Traci, already no bigger than my index finger, seemed to fall in on herself and became even smaller. She smiled weakly. “I’m okay. But I think I’m about to not be.”
I closed the door behind us and motioned to an empty seat for her. I sat with the desk between us, which, at that moment, seemed to separate us by miles. “No, I’m afraid not. Traci, there’s no way for me to make this easy for you. We got a call today. Your son, Benjamin, chose to end his life.”
There is always a moment of silence. One thing I’ve learned in life is that silence is usually better than trying to fill a space with well-meaning but nonetheless empty platitudes that, more often than not, go unheard.
So we sat, with those few moments as distant and distinct as the space between us. Traci locked her eyes on mine, and I watched as tears pooled in her eyes. She finally whispered, “Thank you for telling me.”
She started to get up, and I said, “No, sit here with me for a while.”
I waited for the tears to momentarily subside. Then I asked Traci questions about her boy. All the good things she could remember. I asked about his favorite things in life. He’d loved the Razorbacks and pretty much anything with a motor. I choked back tears at several of her memories.
I prayed with her and told her how important it was going to be for her to find ways to lean into God for hope and strength. I prayed God would place angels in strategic places around her to whisper peace that only he could give her hurting heart. I prayed that as impossible as it seemed, she would find peace instead of fear.
The last thing I told her was that I would continue to pray for her. I would pray that she find a way to show the glory of her Father in the midst of this devastating situation. That she would press into him and give him the chance to be her safe place, the only One she could truly trust with this pain. Traci gave a half-hearted nod, unconvinced. It was, after all, prison. She wiped her face with her government-issued white sleeve and walked back to her barrack.
I watched as she made her way down the cinder-block hallway. I heard every step of grief echo through the building. I listened to the heaviness of her barrack door as it closed behind her. Her lowered shoulders, bearing more weight than one lonely woman should ever have to carry, spoke volumes. One more defeat in her life.
I looked toward the officer at her door as she watched Traci plod slowly to her rack. The officer turned toward me and said, “Traci went straight to her bed and started brushing her hair.”
I went back to the office. “Lord, you’ve called me to this ministry. I do love it. But I don’t ever want to do that again.”
A couple of hours later, at the evening service, I stood at the door, welcoming all the ladies to the visitation center. Mentally, I was only halfway there, trying to realign my troubled heart for the teaching I was about to do.
As the welcome line progressed, I looked up to see a tiny lady walk in. Her eyes were red and wet with tears. My throat closed, and my eyes stung as I struggled with the words.
“Hi, Traci. I’m so glad you’re here.”
