I was lying on the porch the other morning, chin on paws, watching my human read that worn old Bible. The sun was climbing up slow, birds fussing in the trees, and I was thinking about… well… squirrels.
Then I remembered the chewed-up shoe.
Now, I’d like to say the shoe came that way, but me and the truth both know better.
I had that awful, tail-drooping feeling dogs get when we know we’ve done wrong. You know the look—ears down, eyes up, hoping mercy feels better than justice.
But my human just scratched behind my ears and read aloud, “He has not dealt with us as our sins deserve… as far as the east is from the west, so far has He removed our transgressions from us.”
- Psalm 103:10,12
Now that made these old dog ears perk up.
Because I know a thing or two about grace.
Grace is when I muddy up the floor and still get invited by the fire.
Grace is when I chase what I shouldn’t, ignore what I should, and still hear my name called with love.
Grace is the hand that corrects me but never quits on me.
Sounds a lot like Jesus.
My human says grace is getting the goodness we didn’t earn.
Dogs understand that.
I’ve never once earned bacon.
The Apostle Paul said, “By grace you have been saved through faith… it is God’s gift.” - Ephesians 2:8
Gift.
Now there’s a word worth wagging over.
See, I used to think when I messed up, I had to crawl back slow and prove I was worthy again.
But grace doesn’t work like fetching a tennis ball.
It’s not something I bring back to God.
It’s something God brings to me.
Romans says “while we were still sinners, Christ died for us”
- Romans 5:8.
Not after we cleaned our paws.
Not after we stopped wandering.
But while we were still chasing squirrels.
Now that’ll preach.
I’ve noticed when my human throws a ball, he doesn’t throw it east and then west at the same time.
They never meet.
And that’s how far God says He has removed our sins.
Gone.
Not buried in the backyard to dig up later.
Gone.
A dog understands this too:
When my human calls me back after I’ve run loose, I don’t sit around sniffing old guilt. I run into his arms.
Maybe that’s what grace does.
It teaches us to come home wagging.
Friend, if you’ve been carrying old failures around like burrs in your fur, hear this old dog out:
God’s grace is bigger than your worst mess.
Deeper than regret.
Stronger than shame.
Jesus didn’t just toss you a second chance.
He gave you Himself.
And that, from where I’m lying, is enough to make an old dog thump his tail.
Lord, thank You for grace that forgives, restores, and welcomes us home.
Teach us to live amazed by your grace and mercy.
Amen.
Keep the Faith… Carpe Diem
