The God that we love and serve is the God of all comfort and strength. He
is never too early and never too late to answer the prayers of His people
and has promised that He would never leave us nor forsake us. We are to 
trust Him in all circumstances and have confidence that He will supply all
of our needs according to the promise of His Word.

I hope you are blessed by today's longer than normal story and are 
encouraged by it to trust and have confidence in the ability of the Lord.


THE OLD MAN AND THE DOG

"Watch out! You nearly broad-sided that car!" My father yelled at me. 
"Can't you do anything right?"

Those words hurt worse than blows. I turned my head toward the elderly man
in the seat beside me, daring me to challenge him. A lump rose in my throat
as I averted my eyes. I wasn't prepared for another battle.

"I saw the car, Dad. Please don't yell at me when I'm driving." My voice
was measured and steady, sounding far calmer than I really felt.

Dad glared at me, then turned away and settled back.

At home I left Dad in front of the television and went outside to collect
my thoughts. Dark, heavy clouds hung in the air with a promise of rain. 
The rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo my inner turmoil. What could
I do about him?

Dad had been a lumberjack in Washington and Oregon. He had enjoyed being 
outdoors and had reveled in pitting his strength against the forces of 
nature. He had entered grueling lumberjack competitions, and had placed 
often. The shelves in his house were filled with trophies that attested to
his prowess. The years marched on relentlessly. The first time he couldn't
lift a heavy log, he joked about it; but later that same day I saw him
outside alone, straining to lift it. He became irritable whenever anyone
teased him about his advancing age, or when he couldn't do something he had
done as a younger man.

Four days after his sixty-seventh birthday, he had a heart attack. An 
ambulance sped him to the hospital while a paramedic administered CPR to 
keep blood and oxygen flowing. At the hospital, Dad was rushed into an 
operating room. He was lucky; he survived.

But something inside Dad died.

His zest for life was gone. He obstinately refused to follow doctors 
orders. Suggestions and offers of help were turned aside with sarcasm and
insults. The number of visitors thinned, then finally stopped altogether.
Dad was left alone.

My husband, Rick, and I asked Dad to come live with us on our small farm.
We hoped the fresh air and rustic atmosphere would help him adjust.

Within a week after he moved in, I regretted the invitation. It seemed 
nothing was satisfactory. He criticized everything I did. I became 
frustrated and moody. Soon I was taking my pent-up anger out on Rick. We 
began to bicker and argue.

Alarmed, Rick sought out our pastor and explained the situation.

The clergyman set up weekly counseling appointments for us. At the close 
of each session he prayed, asking God to soothe Dad's troubled mind. But 
the months wore on and God was silent.

A raindrop struck my cheek. I looked up into the gray sky. Somewhere up 
there was "God." Although I believe a Supreme Being had created the 
universe, I had difficulty believing that God cared about the tiny human 
beings on this earth. I was tired of waiting for a God who did not answer.

Something had to be done and it was up to me to do it. The next day I sat
down with the phone book and methodically called each of the mental health
clinics listed in the Yellow Pages. I explained my problem in vain to each
of the sympathetic voices that answered.

Just when I was giving up hope, one of the voices suddenly exclaimed, "I 
just read something that might help you! Let me go get the article."

I listened as she read. The article described a remarkable study done at a
nursing home. All of the patients were under treatment for chronic 
depression. Yet their attitudes had improved dramatically when they were 
given responsibility for a dog.

I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon. After I filled out a 
questionnaire, a uniformed officer led me to the kennels. The odor of 
disinfectant stung my nostrils as I moved down the row of pens. Each 
contained five to seven dogs. Long-haired dogs, curly-haired dogs, black
dogs, spotted dogs - all jumped up, trying to reach me. I studied each one
but rejected one after the other for various reasons, too big, too small,
too much hair.

As I neared the last pen a dog in the shadows of the far corner struggled
to his feet, walked to the front of the run and sat down.

It was a pointer, one of the dog world's aristocrats. But this was a 
caricature of the breed. Years had etched his face and muzzle with shades
of gray. His hipbones jutted out in lopsided triangles. But it was his 
eyes that caught and held my attention. Calm and clear, they beheld me 
unwaveringly.

I pointed to the dog. "Can you tell me about him?" The officer looked, then
shook his head in puzzlement.

"He's a funny one. Appeared out of nowhere and sat in front of the gate. 
We brought him in, figuring someone would be right down to claim him. That
was two weeks ago and we've heard nothing. His time is up tomorrow." He
gestured helplessly.

As the words sank in I turned to the man in horror. "You mean you're going
to kill him?"

"Ma'am," he said gently, "that's our policy. We don't have room for every
unclaimed dog."

I looked at the pointer again. The calm brown eyes awaited my decision.

"I'll take him," I said.

I drove home with the dog on the front seat beside me. When I reached the
house I honked the horn twice. I was helping my prize out of the car when
Dad shuffled onto the front porch.

"Ta-da! Look what I got for you, Dad!" I said excitedly.

Dad looked, then wrinkled his face in disgust. "If I had wanted a dog I 
would have gotten one. And I would have picked out a better specimen than
that bag of bones. Keep it! I don't want it." Dad waved his arm scornfully
and turned back toward the house.

Anger rose inside me. It squeezed together my throat muscles and pounded 
into my temples. "You'd better get used to him, Dad. He's staying!"

Dad ignored me.

"Did you hear me, Dad?" I screamed.

At those words Dad whirled angrily, his hands clenched at his sides, his 
eyes narrowed and blazing with hate. We stood glaring at each other like 
duelists, when suddenly the pointer pulled free from my grasp. He wobbled
toward my dad and sat down in front of him. Then slowly, carefully, he 
raised his paw.

Dad's lower jaw trembled as he stared at the uplifted paw. Confusion 
replaced the anger in his eyes. The pointer waited patiently. Then Dad 
was on his knees hugging the animal. It was the beginning of a warm and 
intimate friendship.

Dad named the pointer Cheyenne. Together he and Cheyenne explored the 
community. They spent long hours walking down dusty lanes. They spent 
reflective moments on the banks of streams, angling for tasty trout. They
even started to attend Sunday services together, Dad sitting in a pew and
Cheyenne lying quietly at his feet.

Dad and Cheyenne were inseparable throughout the next three years. Dad's 
bitterness faded, and he and Cheyenne made many friends.

Then late one night I was startled to feel Cheyenne's cold nose burrowing
through our bed covers. He had never before come into our bedroom at 
night. I woke Rick, put on my robe and ran into my father's room. Dad lay
in his bed, his face serene. But his spirit had left quietly sometime 
during the night.

Two days later my shock and grief deepened when I discovered Cheyenne lying
dead beside Dad's bed. I wrapped his still form in the rag rug he had slept
on. As Rick and I buried him near a favorite fishing hole, I silently
thanked the dog for the help he had given me in restoring Dad's peace of mind.

The morning of Dad's funeral dawned overcast and dreary. This day looks 
like the way I feel, I thought, as I walked down the aisle to the pews 
reserved for family. I was surprised to see the many friends Dad and 
Cheyenne had made filling the church.

The pastor began his eulogy. It was a tribute to both Dad and the dog who
had changed his life. And then the pastor turned to Hebrews 13:2. "Be not
forgetful to entertain strangers..."

"I've often thanked God for sending that angel," he said.

For me, the past dropped into place, completing a puzzle that I had not 
seen before: the sympathetic voice that had just read the right article...
Cheyenne's unexpected appearance at the animal shelter. His calm acceptance
and complete devotion to my father...and the proximity of their deaths.

And suddenly I understood. I knew that God had answered my prayers after all.

Author Unknown


Today's Selected Poem: IN HIS HANDS
Click here to read --- http://www.Godswork.org/enpoem159.htm

Today's Selected Testimony: GOD WILL NEVER LEAVE OUR SIDE
Click here to read --- http://www.Godswork.org/testimony52.htm


In Christ's Service, 

Dwayne Savaya 
Gods Work Ministry