I'm not a dog person. I know, I know. Some of you are vowing to ignore me forever because I must be a terrible human being. I get it. You're dog people. If you're running down the sidewalk and see a neighbor with a dog coming towards you, I'm sure you squat right down and rub that pooch behind his ears. You tickle him under his chin as you ask your neighbor the dog's name, age, breed, and favorite type of bone. If I'm running down the sidewalk and see a neighbor with a dog coming towards me, I cross the street.

I blame it on my parents. My brother and I requested a dog for every birthday and Christmas throughout our childhoods to no avail. I don't know why my parents were against our family owning a dog. My father had a boxer named King when he was growing up. My Granny used to tell the story of how King let her know her youngest son, my uncle John, had fallen off his bicycle in the street by jumping up in front of the kitchen window and barking his head off until my grandmother finally looked outside. I find that rather impressive. My mother grew up on a tobacco farm in rural North Carolina. We visited my grandparents there several times a year and almost every time we did, there was a litter of puppies frolicking in the backyard. My brother and I would inevitably become attached to the cutest one and beg our mom to let us take him home. She never caved.

We had a couple of goldfish for a while. They didn't smell so great. We even had a parakeet named Joey. We chose Joey because the teenager at the pet store told us male parakeets make wonderful pets. He claimed male parakeets like people, enjoy being held, and even have the capability of learning to speak. I spent hours recording myself saying phrases like, "Hello, how are you," over and over on a blank tape in the hopes that Joey would begin saying such phrases himself. Unfortunately, we had to return Joey to the pet store after only a few weeks of ownership. He hated us. He pecked and bit and flew around his cage as though desperate to escape. He also made more noise than any animal on the face of the earth. Turns out the teenager who sold Joey to our family suffered from gender confusion. Joey was actually a Joanna.

About a year ago, my in-laws purchased a puppy. Her name is Lucy and she's a Cavachon, which is a cross between a Bichon Frise and a King Charles Cavalier. I suppose that means she can bark in French AND in English. We used to call dogs like Lucy mutts. Now we call them boutique or specialty breeds. Don't you love how humans do that? We can make anything sound special.

Lucy was a cute puppy, I admit. Yet you must remember, I'm not a dog person, so I didn't fall in love with her at first sight. Recently, however, my in-laws have been traveling and our family has become the dog sitter. Surprisingly, Lucy has grown on me. In fact, I'm starting to like her a lot. Lucy has quite a personality, when she isn't sleeping. Actually, her extensive sleep schedule might be one of the reasons I like her so much. She keeps me company, but doesn't demand much of me. She simply wants to be in the same room I'm in while she takes one of her many naps. Sometimes, I wish the other inhabitants of my home were so effortless.

When my in-laws purchased Lucy, they hired a canine expert to come to their home and teach them how to train her. The expert suggested Lucy be kept on a leash at all times. This was meant to help her get used to the leash while also teaching her she would not have full reign in my in-laws home. Lucy is over a year old now and the only time she does not have a leash around her neck is when she goes to sleep in her crate each night.

Recently, while dog sitting, I decided to take Lucy's leash off while we were hanging out with the kids in the basement. I thought she would enjoy running around unhindered. Within seconds of its removal, Lucy picked up the leash in her mouth and dropped it in front of me. She looked down at the leash and back up at me, down at the leash and back up at me. Then she barked, which is rare, and tried to push the leash towards me with her noes, which didn't exactly work but certainly got the point across, regardless of the fact that I'm no dog whisperer. I hooked the leash back onto Lucy's collar and off she went, happy as could be. I grinned, instantly reminded of a toddler dragging a dingy, frayed baby blanket behind him wherever he goes.

We all have our leashes, I guess. We have things in life that bring us comfort; things we don't want to live without, and we hold to those things tightly. Freedom can ignite fear and when we are afraid, we look to the steady, reliable things in our lives to provide assurance.

My husband is a comfort to me. When he walks in the door after being at work all day, I feel my shoulders instantly relax as I take in the pleasant fact that my reinforcement has arrived. I find it comforting that my partner in crime has appeared to help me take care of all those things that need to be cared for - the children, the laundry, the evening meal.

Control is comforting to me as well. When my home and my life and my family are in order, I feel a sense of calm. That peace simply doesn't exist if I haven't cleaned my toilets in a few days or it's after 8:00 pm and my children have not been fed, bathed, and tucked into bed.

In 1 Corinthians 1, it says, "Blessed be the Father of mercies and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort those who are in trouble, with the comfort which we ourselve are comforted by God."

Whoa. That's a whole lot of comfort in there. Comfort from God . . . for us . . . to give to others.

I want to find comfort in God. When I'm scared and can't seem to find stable ground, I want to believe the One who created me can also comfort me. I want to look to Him to soothe my anxieties, because He is the only one who knows my heart and can provide exactly what I need.

I often wear a necklace with a cross charm on it. It looks good with just about everything so I slip it on over my head many mornings as I rush off to complete my daily to-do list. "Cute necklace," someone will say at the grocery store or in carpool or in the check-out line at Nordstrom. "Thank you. My friend gave this to me when I finished graduate school." I twist the charm in my fingers as the casual exchange of words ends; an exchange I probably won't remember minutes later.

But . . . what if I realized the potential in such an exchange? What if I responded differently? What if I took the opportunity to make the exchange a meaningful one? Maybe even a memorable one?


"Thank you. This charm gives me comfort because it helps me remember where peace comes from.

Hey, I didn't say I've done this people. Trust me, there isn't a bit of evangelical in this chick. But what if I did? What if I reached out with the comfort so freely lavished upon me and offered it to someone who crosses my path. Someone God might have placed in my path for a specific reason. Someone who might need comfort more than I do.

I'm going to start paying a little more attention to the cross charm hanging around my neck. I'm going to think of it in the way Lucy thinks of the leash around her neck - as a symbol of safety and security. As a necessary reminder that comfort is available to me whenever I want it, as long as I look for it in the right place. And maybe, if the opportunity presents itself and I'm feeling my inner Billy Graham, maybe I'll take a chance and offer that comfort, God's everlasting comfort, to someone else. Because who doesn't need a little more comfort in their life? Everyone needs a little more comfort now and then.

Even dog people.