At Tasha's age (she's almost seventeen), getting her out to walk can be a chore. The strategy is simple--wave a dog biscuit under her nose, wait for her to wake up, and then lure her out to the woods. She's eager for the 'cookie' so I give it to her after a couple of hundred of feet on the path. After she gobbles it down, her shoulders slump and her excitement dissolves, as if she's thinking the fun's done--why is she making me keep going?
After all these years, walking the path is so ingrained that she doesn't have an inkling she could turn around and just go home. So she drags a couple hundred feet behind me, her head low and her tail down. I'd think I was the worst owner in creation--but I know this is good for her. '
Sure enough, once we make the turn for the stream path, she whizzes by me like a puppy. She can't keep it up, of course, but for a few feet, she's in the moment of joy.
And, if I'm to be honest, I must admit I'm like that.
I drag myself before God because I know it's a good place for me to be. Sometimes the path seems worn and boring (trust me, I know the danger of admitting such a thing in public...zzzt...lightning bolt alert) that I'm just looking at my own feet and not at where I am. And yet, like Tasha, who out of habit trusts me to take her to a good place, God does the same for me.
Tasha's old and creaky. I'm busy and cranky. I walk Tasha because she needs it. God meets us there because I need it.
I'm ashamed when Tasha is the first one of us to lift her head and acknowledge that.