“With the tongue we praise our Lord and Father, and with it we curse human beings, who have been made in God’s likeness.”
- James 3:9 NIV
I’ve got a good nose for truth, but I’ve also got a mouth that can get me in trouble.
That’s what I’ve learned lying on the porch watching the world bustle past like a parade I didn’t ask to lead.
Folks think a dog’s biggest problem is chasing squirrels or stealing table scraps.
But if you sit with me awhile, you’ll see my real battle isn’t with the mailman — it’s with my own bark.
Some days my tongue is like a leash pulled too tight.
James says people can tame every kind of animal — birds, reptiles, sea creatures — and believe me, I’ve seen it.
I’ve watched trainers make wolves sit, hawks return, and dolphins dance on command.
But that same verse looks right at us and says no one can fully tame the tongue.
It’s restless.
It’s unruly.
It’s like my tail when a car door closes in the garage.
I know that feeling.
One moment I’m a good, faithful, sunlight-loving pup, content to rest in the shade of grace.
The next moment?
A stray cat crosses my path and I lose my mind, barking like the world is ending.
My reaction is bigger than the reality.
My noise is louder than the need.
James says the tongue is a small part of the body, but it boasts great things — like a tiny spark that can set a whole forest ablaze.
I’ve seen that too.
One sharp growl can ruin a quiet afternoon.
One careless snarl can break trust that took years to build.
And here’s the hard truth:
With the same mouth I smile, cry, and whimper in joy, I can also snarl and bark in anger.
Blessing one minute, barking the next.
Just like people — praising God on Sunday, tearing someone down on Monday.
That doesn’t sit right with me.
A spring can’t pour out both fresh water and salt.
A fig tree can’t bear olives.
And a good dog, if he’s truly learning to walk in the light, can’t live in a constant state of bark-first, think-later.
So I’ve been practicing something new.
When I feel the urge to bark, I take a breath — long and slow like a hound settling in on the Spring grass.
I remember whose porch I’m lying on. I remember whose hand fills my bowl.
I remember that every tail wag, every soft look, every gentle nudge can speak louder than any growl.
Controlling my tongue isn’t about being silent. It’s about learning when to speak, how to speak, and — just as important — when to simply sit, watch, and trust.
Because a well-timed quiet can be just as holy as a well-timed praise.
So tonight, I’ll curl up at my human’s feet, dreaming of open fields and calm hearts, praying that tomorrow my bark will guard what matters, my actions will reflect my love, and my reactions will look more like grace than instinct.
After all, a faithful dog isn’t the one who barks the loudest.
It’s the one who loves the best.
Keep the Faith… Carpe Diem
