This dog.  I’m tellin’ ya folks, she’s full of wisdom.  I know you’re tired of reading about my puppy.  Frankly, I’m tired of writing about her.  But she just . . . . knows things.

I need to begin by telling you we almost lost Macie this month.  No, we weren’t out buying poster board and preparing to staple signs to telephone poles.  When I say ‘lost,’ I mean the dog almost died.  It’s a very long story, but it started with a lazier than usual pup that turned into a vomiting pup that turned into a pup who couldn’t even stand up.  The vet still doesn’t know what happened, but Macie’s liver was failing, and for a full week, we weren’t sure she was going to make it.  There was even talk of a blood transfusion at one point.  This was serious.

Now, before you start wondering just exactly what I’ve been praying about in regards to our puppy for the last eight months, I must reassure you that I did NOT want Macie to die.  Yes, there have been quite a few moments since we brought her home when I would have been perfectly happy to spend an afternoon stapling lost dog signs to telephone poles.  Still, I had no desire for the nemesis of my sanity to stop breathing at ten months of age.  It was a very scary week.  Surprisingly, however, although Macie could barely lift her head and orange liquids flowed from body parts that should never release liquids, I’ll be darned if that sick little critter didn’t teach me a lesson anyway.

If you didn’t know this already, there’s a reason people use the phrase “puppy dog eyes” and it ignites instant understanding.  Dogs don’t appear sick when they’re deathly ill.  They aren’t strangely thin or extremely pale.  But their eyes . . . oh my.  They become windows to the dog’s soul, and I realize that sounds absolutely insane, but people, it’s the honest to goodness truth.  Just thinking about the way Macie looked at me as the orange liquids flowed makes me wince.  Her eyes told me everything I needed to know about the way our puppy felt.  She was desperate. 

I wonder how many people would be saved if human eyes could convey such an acute need for someone, anyone, to reach out and help. 

I wonder how many times I’ve failed to notice that someone right beside me was in pain.  How often have I spent too little time with someone who was lonely?  How many times did I participate only half-heartedly in a conversation with someone who was hurting so badly, she didn’t know where to go, or who to turn to, or how to ask?

Human eyes can look sad.  They can look sick.  But I’ve never seen a human’s eyes look like Macie’s did the week she almost died. 

I suppose God created puppy dog eyes because dogs don’t have the capacity to communicate with speech.  They can’t tell us their stomach hurts worse than ever before or someone they love has broken their heart into a million pieces or their most important dream didn’t come true. (Wouldn’t you like to know what that dream would be, by the way?  It’s rainin’ bones, hallelujah, it’s rainin’ bones!)  Sorry. We’ll dive into dog dreams another day – it’s simply too good to dismiss.  My point, however, is that canines can’t tell us when they need help.  They have to convey messages in another way. 

Humans, on the other hand, have the ability to call out for help when we are struggling.  And sometimes, we struggle.  The world can be a cruel place.  People don’t treat us in the ways we want them to.  Things don’t happen on our timeline.  Life feels difficult and we find ourselves scared and lonely and hurt.  When the tough times come, and they always will, we can ask for help.  Of course, there’s that tiny little problem we humans have with the whole asking others for help idea, and that is the fact that we HATE doing it.  Yet, the fact remains.  Sometimes . . . we need to be rescued.

Help can come in many forms.  Maybe a smile from a stranger would lift our spirit.  Perhaps a night out with our husband would calm our soul.  Maybe lunch with a friend who will share a cupcake (sans calorie counting) would bring us joy.  For me, all these things sustain me through the inevitable tough times, along with many others – long walks, good music, Bailey’s on the rocks after the kids have gone to bed on a Saturday night.:) 

Still, there is only one who can truly rescue me.  And all I have to do to find him, is look up.     

Psalm 34:17   The Lord hears his people when they call to him for help.  He rescues them from all their troubles.  

Our little Macie couldn’t ask for help when her liver was shutting down, but her eyes let me know she was in great need.  I pray I will be able to cry out for help when I am in such need - to my family, to my friends, to God.  And I pray I will be able to recognize when someone around me is crying out for help, whether they are using words or not.

Eighteen pairs of eyes focused on her and I could see the instant flush in her cheeks. She walked forward and took her seat in the single chair at the front of the room, her chosen book in hand. She looked terrified. Well, she also looked totally and completely adorable, but as her mother, I could definitely tell she was anxious about the experience ahead. Her legs swung back and forth in constant motion as the nervous energy released itself. I smiled and nodded my head in her direction, attempting to convey my parental encouragement without the use of words.

She started a bit fast and a little quiet, but after a page or two, she settled in. Her pace slowed and her voiced strengthened. She wasn’t as expressive as she would have been in her room at home, without an audience of five year olds surrounding her, but she sounded good . . . solid. She sounded like the fluent reader she was.

Secure in my daughter’s strong start, I pulled out my phone and began recording, a huge grin permanently stretched across my face as I tried to hold the phone steady. I hadn’t realized my hands were shaking, my own anxiety forcing its way through the confidence I’d tried so hard to emit on our drive over.

Truthfully, I didn’t think she’d do it, and hey, I had my reasons. Reason number one: I've listened to my daughter belt out songs at the top of her lungs for weeks around our house and then stand on stage for her school Christmas program like a deer . . . ahem, a reindeer . . . in headlights. Reason number two: Libby once spent several days with the varsity cheerleaders at her school preparing to participate in the homecoming pep rally along with most of the other girls in her kindergarten class. On the day of the pep rally, however, our little cheerleader turned into a chicken, and those pom poms of hers never did make it out on that gym floor. Reason number three: My daughter's teacher asked Libby to read aloud to her for months before she finally agreed to do it, and when she did agree, she chose a book with four words in it.

Sure, my little girl can talk a big game. She's always been very good at making plans. What she's not always so good at, is following through with her plans, especially if they involve getting up in front of an audience. So when Libby told me she wanted to accept an invitation to read to the students now inhabiting her former preschool classroom, forgive me if I was skeptical. VERY skeptical.

I stalled on getting the visit scheduled. I told her we should wait until after Thanksgiving. Then I told her we should wait until after Christmas. Then, low and behold, there was an email in my inbox in early January from Libby’s former teachers. They wanted to set a date and I was out of reasons to stall.

My daughter was thrilled when I told her the plans were made and she was going to read in her old classroom on a Friday morning near the end of the month. She knew exactly what book she would take: "Amelia Bedelia and the Baby." Never mind that the humor would likely be over the heads of the audience. Never mind that the book was part of a collection and therefore quite heavy. Never mind that the illustrations were much too small to see from a distance. Never mind that the story was a lengthy one. My daughter loved "Amelia Bedelia and the Baby" and she knew she could read it well. And she did read it well. Very well, in fact.

Right up to the point where she got stuck.

It was the longest word in the story. It was a word rarely spoken and a word I've never seen in another book. It was a word I likely “edited” when I read this particular book to Libby in the past, as it wasn’t a word I cared to hear my child repeat. It was the word ‘tarnation.’ Seriously, who says that word? You drop a jar on your foot and you yell ‘TARNATION!’ Yea, I didn’t think so. Maybe your great grandmother used that word down in south Georgia a century ago, but today, it's not a common expletive, at least not in these parts.

Yet . . . Amelia Bedelia uses the word ‘tarnation.’ And now, my daughter was sitting in front of eighteen people, trying desperately to determine what to do because she had come to a word in the book she was reading aloud that she didn’t know or wasn’t sure she should say.

As mothers, we’ve all had those moments. You know, the ones where you feel as if someone is actually reaching into your chest, grabbing hold of your heart, and twisting it as tightly as they possibly can. Well, this was one of those moments. I was twenty feet away from my daughter as I watched her face contort in confusion. I saw the look of panic in her eyes and the quiver of her lip as helplessness began to consume her. The alarm sounded inside my head and I felt hot beads of sweat begin to form as every ounce of blood in my body rushed to the surface of my skin. I could see flashing red lights around me, all of them screaming the same dire message.

RESCUE! RESCUE! RESCUE your daughter!

I opened my mouth but no words came.

What should I do? What can I say? How do I help her?

I'm sure no more than two or three seconds passed as this event played out that Friday morning in Libby’s old preschool class. My daughter stumbled, just for a moment, and struggled to get back on her feet, something she does on a daily basis . . . something we all do on a daily basis. And yet, the familiar rush of emotions that overtook my being as I witnessed it was torturous. It was physically painful to watch my child sitting on the brink of failure with a crowd observing.

I didn’t rescue Libby. The teacher, who was sitting just a few feet away, jumped to action and helped my daughter with the word she didn’t know how to say. I was already a big fan of that teacher. Now, she’s one of my heroes.

The rest of the read aloud went perfectly. Libby recovered quickly and went on to finish the book as if she’d been reading to a classroom full of students for years. She was so proud of herself as she skipped down the hall and back to our car just minutes later, and I felt so grateful to be her mother. Still, I will forever remember that moment when my heart twisted inside my chest while watching my daughter flounder to get out of a situation she didn't want to be in. I’ll never forget the overwhelming intensity of emotions in my soul as I observed my child hanging on for dear life.

Oh, I'm certain I’ll have those feelings again. As the mother of two children, my heart will likely be caught in that vice grip of concern many, many times in the years ahead, and I imagine it will never get any less difficult to witness my children in the throes of their discomfort. In all honesty, as much as it hurts, I want my children to have some challenging experiences in their lives. They need to know what it's like to suffer embarrassment and heartache and helplessness, or else how will they learn to empathize with others? How will they learn to ask for help? How will they learn to trust in the only one who will always be there when they need Him?

I suppose, as a parent, all I can do is hope and pray that there will always be loving and supportive people nearby when my children are in need of being recued - teachers, friends, family members. And one day, when my heart has been thoroughly ripped to shreds after all the worry and hope and pleading with God to protect my children from all that can trip them up in life, I will have to smile, step back, and let my children rescue themselves.