Now I've never been to seminary, and I don’t know a lick about Greek or Hebrew—but I do know a thing or two about trust.
You don’t spend your whole life waiting by a door, watching a man leave and come back, without learning what faith looks like.
My human was sitting on the porch the other morning, Bible open, coffee cooling, eyes steady on the page.
I was stretched out at his shoes, doing what I do best—keeping watch and listening in.
Sometimes I watch him wrestle with things I can’t smell or chase away.
Big things.
Quiet things.
The kind that make him pray longer. But then—little by little—his shoulders drop, his breathing slows, and there’s this peace that settles in like a warm patch of sunlight on the floor.
He’s trusting Someone the way I trust him.
He read out loud, like he always does when something matters:
“Now faith is the reality of what is hoped for, the proof of what is not seen.”
- Hebrews 11:1 HCSB
I tilted my head.
That sounded a lot like me.
See, every morning he grabs his keys, and every morning I watch him walk out that door.
Now I don’t see where he goes.
I don’t understand traffic or meetings or whatever it is humans do all day.
But I don’t panic.
I don’t pace (well… not too much). Why?
Because I know he’s coming back.
That’s faith.
It not about seeing—it’s about knowing.
Later on, he read another line:
“Now without faith it is impossible to please God…”
- Hebrews 11:6 HCSB
I perked up at that.
Impossible?
That’s a strong word.
But the more I thought about it, the more it made sense—even to a dog.
You can’t please someone you don’t trust.
If I didn’t trust my human, I wouldn’t come when he calls.
I wouldn’t follow him down a trail I can’t see the end of.
I sure wouldn’t roll over and show my belly—that takes some real believing right there.
And maybe that’s what growing in faith looks like for folks.
It’s not always big, dramatic moments.
Sometimes it’s just taking the next step when you don’t see the whole path.
Sitting still when the world says run.
Trusting the Master even when the door closes and you’re left waiting.
I’ve noticed something else, too.
The more time I spend with my human, the easier it is to trust him.
His voice gets familiar.
His ways make sense.
I don’t have to second-guess every command—I just follow.
Seems to me that’s how it works with God.
You walk with Him.
You listen.
You learn His voice.
And over time, your faith grows—not because life gets easier, but because your trust gets deeper.
So here I am, just a porch dog with a front-row seat to grace, learning that faiths not fancy.
It’s steady.
It’s loyal.
It’s waiting by the door… knowing the One you love is coming back.
I don’t know a whole lot about a whole lot but if a dog can figure that much out, I’m thinking there’s hope for the rest of us.
Keep the Faith… Carpe Diem
