Buster’s barking wakes me and compels me to rise. It is his “I’m going to bark until you come check this out” bark–a bark with a distinct seriousness to it that cannot, in good conscience, be ignored. Basset hounds are vocal–howling and senseless barking are integral to their make-up, yet this particular bark is “other”, it demands action from the hearer. It is an alarm that persists til one addresses the issue.
Shaking off sleep, I hear him but it doesn’t compute. You see, Buster has been dead for six months. It cannot be him. With eyes open and wits about me, I realize I heard him in that in-between sleep and awake place. Somehow I know it is a spiritual summons, a divine door-knock to get up and take a walk.
Before heading out the door, I go downstairs to peek in on my sleeping daughter. Soon to be 18, she rustles when I enter and mutters something about getting up–she needs to be somewhere soon. About to ascend the steps I hear a strange mewing from our cat. Crouched before the sliding glass patio door he is intent on something outside. Joining him, I see it. A huge snapping turtle is ten feet from the door in our patio’s concrete sunken fire pit. It looks like he tried to burrow in the pit, for he has fire pit muck on his back. There isn’t nearly enough muck present, though, for a respectable burial. He resembles a kid who splashes in a puddle, but only accumulates a few splatters. He is a good fit for the pit, just about the right size for comfort, a proper bed for a snapping turtle, I’d say. He sees us, extends limbs and begins to ponder lumbering up and out. I call to Emily and we gingerly exit the patio door for closer viewing. The turtle barely moves–he stays outside his shell, head raised looking us keenly in the eye. Silently, in that vacant stare, I hear God’s message. It is “wisdom”. The walk will yield wisdom…
The turtle waits us out and wins–after a few minutes we are sufficiently bored. Emily scurries to shower, I to my walk.
I tread a beautiful three-mile stretch of tree-lined, winding road flanked by well-manicured lake homes. The day, Memorial Day, is perfect. The sun shines, the breeze is mild, the neighborhood sounds are still asleep. I take in the beauty and fresh air and reflect: these days are mixed with joy, celebration, grief and pain. Emily’s birthday and graduation quickly approach; Charlie–our son–soon visits for a week; sorrow, anger and loss surface in the face of trials I cannot name here. It is a mixed bag replete with mixed feelings–I vacillate with them, feeling torn apart, yet trying to stay in one piece for the sake of others.
About half way through, railroad lights flash, bells sound, arms descend. Unable to pass, I stop and watch the train slowly saunter by–whiz by it wouldn’t. Looking down the track, there is no caboose in sight–it will be awhile…I look around. I see it. Just on the other side of the tracks looms a huge dead tree (pictured above). It bursts into the sky with barren, gnarled fingers. Contrasting sharply with its lush and leafy neighbors, I sorrow at its plight: surrounded by spring’s life-burst, it sprouts only death.
With train passed and arms up, I cross over and take a closer look. Surprised, I see the tree isn’t dead. Much of the surrounding green is its own–strong leafy limbs loop its unsightly center. It has life, it gives life–only the most visible part of it is lifeless.
I hear Buster’s bark, see the turtle’s gaze and then He whispers it: the big, death-dealing deeds we perpetrate aren’t all that is. The gnarled, lifeless places in our life may be all others choose to see, especially when our dead places cause considerable pain. But it isn’t so. The kindnesses, the joys, the places where Life gets to bud are not nullified by wrongdoing. We choose either/or thinking…either they’re good or they’re not and make our judgments based on what is most apparent–the best or worst we can see. Like an inmate surrounded by saints, I thought the tree was dead and those surrounding it were alive. But, like this tree, it is both/and. We all do good and evil–all saints sin, all sinners sacrifice. Evil comes in many forms and some carries more pain than others, yet God’s good done through us cannot be canceled by our sin. Only in our hearts, where we harbor unforgiveness and judgment, do we try to make it true…a lifeless dark effort, sure to sprout its own dead limbs.
As I peck at the keyboard, I recall souls found in the Bible who exhibit this truth: David, who not only committed adultery and murder and looked the other way when his son raped his daughter, but who also slew Goliath and saved his nation from defeat–same person; the apostle Paul, not only died a martyr but martyred Saint Stephen–same person; Judas who not only evangelized, exorcised demons and healed people (Luke 9) but also betrayed Jesus and committed suicide–same person. Do the terrible sins committed by these souls nullify the good they did? Can we see them as life-givers and life-takers all in the same breath? Can we do as much with those who hurt us? Can we do as much with ourselves?
I hope the next time I see a Jeffrey Dahmer, a Hitler or even look in the mirror, I’ll remember Buster, the turtle, the tree and God’s whispered wisdom.
Looking for God 
