“Be still, and know that I am God.”
— Psalm 46:10
I don’t understand everything my human does.
For example, there are mornings when the coffee is hot, the porch is quiet, and no one throws the ball.
I tilt my head, wag my tail, and wait.
Surely we’re about to do something important.
But instead… he just sits.
Like the weight of everything unseen has finally been set down in his old chair.
At first, I thought he had forgotten about me.
I nudged his hand.
Nothing.
I dropped my favorite toy at his feet.
Still nothing.
I even let out one of those dramatic sighs that dogs have perfected.
He smiled, scratched behind my ears, and then looked back down at his Bible.
That’s when I started paying attention.
The quieter he became, the stronger he seemed.
The more time he spent listening, the wiser his words became.
The more he sat with Jesus, the steadier he walked through hard days.
His patience grew.
His kindness deepened.
Even when life barked loudly around him, peace seemed to sit faithfully by his side.
Sometimes my human smiles while reading.
Sometimes there are tears that fall without warning.
Sometimes there’s only a whisper—so soft I almost miss it—
Spoken to Someone I cannot see but have come to respect deeply.
Dogs are always watching.
We notice the things humans think nobody sees.
I’ve learned that strength doesn’t always come from running harder.
Sometimes it comes from sitting still.
I spend a lot of time looking out the window.
I notice squirrels, delivery trucks, and the neighbor’s cat who still pretends she owns the street.
But my human has taught me there’s another kind of looking—a looking inward.
He calls it reflection.
The Bible calls it examining your heart.
It’s those quiet moments when the noise fades and Jesus gently points out what needs changing, what needs healing, and what He’s already been doing.
I may never understand all those words on the page, but I recognize what happens afterward.
Peace smells different.
Grace walks differently.
Hope carries itself with a steady stride.
Maybe that’s why Jesus often stepped away from the crowds to be alone with His Father.
If the Savior valued quiet moments, maybe we should too.
That’s why I like his old chair…
I’ve watched enough to know that the stillness that happens there isn’t doing nothing.
It’s making room for God to do something.
So while my human reads, I think I’ll quit trying to interrupt for a little while. I’ll lie down nearby, rest my head on my paws, and enjoy the silence.
Because I’ve learned that some of the greatest things God grows don’t happen in the noise.
They happen in the stillness.
And from where this old lazy dog is lying, those quiet moments with Jesus seem to change everything.
Keep the Faith… Carpe Diem
