Magdi is gone.  Regardless of it being ten years, six months and a day, we thought it was way too early for it to happen, but even she knew.  She had been slow and creaky for several months.  Finally she stopped eating, and quietly sat, waiting for the inevitable.  Since she did not seem to be in pain, we wanted her to die here, the home she had known for all but one month of her life, but it wasn’t to be.  She was just too fit, athlete that she had been, and every morning when we checked on her, expecting that she had gone in the night, she lifted her head for yet another pat and sighed.  No, not yet, Boss. 

            When she reached the point that she could no longer even stand, we decided to make that final trip to the vet.  This one was hard, harder than any of the dogs or cats before.  You might be surprised to know that several have said how they will miss hearing about her—“the Magdi stories,” they always call them, people who have never even seen her.

            She taught us a lot over the years.  First, and foremost, she taught us to fulfill our purposes.  She was born and bred to herd and she tried to do it from puppyhood, crossing our paths as we walked to turn us this way and that.  She herded basketballs, soccer balls, body balls, and even a bowling ball.  She often tried to herd squirrels, which never quite worked as she thought it should. 

            She taught us to work diligently, even when she was tired, even when it was too hot to do much more than sit in the shade.  She taught us loyalty and bravery—she was always between me and whatever scary tractor or mower roared on our property and came running when a snake appeared, even the deadly ones.  From the moment my illness reached this peak, she has somehow known and protected me throughout.

            She taught us that there is always a younger generation watching, one that needs to learn how to do the tough stuff—like eating raw green beans.

            She taught us to find the thing we are best at and do it with all our might, even if it’s just catching tennis balls.  She taught us to enjoy the simple things in life.  She was often an exasperation due to her smarts, but far more often she brought us joy.

            God has been using his animal creation to teach us for thousands of years.  He tells us that even the eagles know to care for their young, Deut 32:11.  He tells us that even the smallest of animals knows to behave wisely, Prov 30:24-28.  He points us to one of his tiniest creatures to teach us about diligence and hard work, Prov 6:6-8, Go to the ant, you sluggard. Consider her ways and be wise.  He tells us that even the birds of the heavens recognize the seasons, so there is no excuse for his people not knowing his law, Jer 8:7.

            So I think it is not wrong for us to remember a special dog who taught us many things over the past few years.  If we could learn our purpose—serving God and one another—if we could be half as brave, hard working, smart, faithful, and content as she was, we might turn out okay after all.
 
Ask now the beasts, and they shall teach you; and the fowls of the air, and they shall tell you: Or speak to the earth, and it shall teach you; and the fishes of the sea shall declare unto you. Who knows not in all these, that the hand of LORD has wrought this? In whose hand is the soul of every living thing, and the breath of all mankind, Job 12:7-10.
 
Dene Ward

I have gotten lazy.  When I need a quick dessert, I pull a quart of blueberries out of the freezer, cut together a cup of flour, a cup of sugar, and a stick of butter, spread those crumbs on top of the blueberries in a baking dish and bake it for about 45 minutes.  Suddenly I have a warm, bubbly, fruity filling with a sweet crunchy topping for a minimum of work and mess in the kitchen.  While a pastry chef would not be impressed, for most people it’s just fine.

            But a blueberry pie?  Now that takes a commitment.  First you make the crust, a careful process of measuring, handling, rolling and fitting into the pie plate.  Then you make the filling, far more ingredients than a crisp and more careful measuring.  Then you have to deal with the top crust, rolling it, sealing it, crimping it, and preparing it for baking with a vent, a brush of milk and a sprinkling of sparkling sugar.  And the baking?  First ten minutes at 425, then another 35-45 at 350, carefully watching the top for over-browning and the vent for bubbling blueberries.  If they don’t bubble, it isn’t done yet no matter how brown the crust is.  So then you must lay some foil over the top so it won’t burn before it finishes baking.  It’s a real process.

            Then you look around the kitchen at the two mixing bowls, the many measuring cups and spoons, the wooden spoons, pastry cutter, and spatulas, the flour covered countertop, and often the floor as well.  It takes more than a minute to clean it up.  But which has the best combination of flavors and textures? Which one is more likely to get the oohs and aahs of company?  When I really want to do something nice for someone, and assuming time is not an issue, they get the pie.

            Too many of us make God settle for the crisp.  If it’s easy and convenient, God gets the service.  If I can still have my life the way I want it, with my own priorities in order, then fine—I am happy to be a Christian.  If it appeals to my sense of sweetness and light, and pats on the back rather than rebukes and chastening, if I receive tons of blessings and few if any trials, I am happy to do it.  Becoming a child of God means repentance, and repentance means I am sorry, right?  So I say I am and now I can go back to doing whatever I want to do.  Don’t expect any tears or humility.

            God will not accept me on those terms.  Nearly every gospel sermon you can find in the New Testament mentions repentance, but simply being sorry is not the repentance those preachers are talking about.  2 Kgs 22:19 says Josiah’s heart was tender and he humbled himself.  David says he acknowledged his sin and did not hide from God, Psa 32:5, and that God only accepts “a broken spirit and a broken and contrite heart,” Psa 51:17.  John told the crowds to “bring forth fruits worthy of repentance,” Matt 3:8, and Jeremiah reminded Old Testament Israel to “thoroughly amend” their ways, Jer 7:5. 

            Repentance is not cosmetic.  It is a complete change of heart and life, and a wholesale attitude adjustment when considering your lifestyle, its goals and purposes.  Paul commends the Corinthians for a repentance that “wrought care, indignation, fear, longing, zeal, avenging,” 2 Cor 7:11.  Commitment to God cannot come without that kind of repentance. 

            Repentance is the very key to conversion.  Once you repent in the way those Corinthians did, in the way the early Christians did, no one will be able to keep you from doing the rest because now everything has changed.  You will not argue about whether baptism is essential.  You will not argue about how many times you need to assemble with the saints.  You will not argue about whether something is “right” or “wrong” if there is any question at all, because you will have the zeal, the care, and the longing to do everything you possibly can to serve God. 

            What did you make for God when you became a Christian?  If you only gave him a blueberry crisp, it’s time to get out the mixing bowls and try again. 
 
If my people, who are called by my name, shall humble themselves, and pray, and seek my face, and turn from their wicked ways; then will I hear from heaven, and will forgive their sin, and will heal their land, 2 Chron 7:14.  
 
Dene Ward

Last spring we watched a hawk couple build a nest right over our garden.  Every day we were out planting and watering, they were carrying twigs trailing Spanish moss up to the lowest fork, thirty feet up the pine tree just east of the plowed plot of dirt we work all summer.  By the time our plants were poking up through the dirt, the mother was sitting on the nest.  She sat so low and blended in so well, it took a pair of binoculars and a steady hand to see her at all.  The father faithfully brought her food every evening, and would often sit on the branch next to the nest as she sat on her eggs.  

About four weeks later, I saw the mother hop off the nest one morning and a day or so after heard tiny cheeps as I stood under the tree.  In a few days, a white downy head appeared, and soon another one.  The next three weeks we watched as the parents brought them food, kept them warm, and at times sat on the rowdy babies so they would not fall out of the tree!  Soon both babies were sitting up in the nest, at times peering over at me while I picked, hoed, watered, and all the other chores involved in gardening.  They were getting so big it took both parents to bring enough food, and their white down was turning brown.

And then one morning, one of them was gone.  At first it did not go far.  It sat in the trees across the fence from the nest-tree.  It was bigger, but had more muted coloring, so we assumed it was a female, and big sister would call out to her little brother all through the day, telling him he could fly too, or so I anthropomorphically presumed.  Then big sister and parents were gone most of the day, mom and dad teaching the first one how to hunt, and only coming back in the evenings to feed the smaller one in the nest, who always greeted them with the most pitiful little squeaks of happiness.  

He seemed so lonely I started talking to him every morning when I was out, and he usually sat up, cocked his head back and forth, and peered over the edge of the nest at me, until I went inside.  I assumed he would be flying in a day or so, but no, after a week, he was still there.  He often flapped his wings, big, strong wings I knew could carry him easily, but he seemed afraid.  In fact, one morning he hopped out of the nest onto the limb and lost his balance.  It was funny to see him wave his wings like a human waving his arms in circles, trying to catch his balance—and he did, and hopped back in that nest as quickly as he could.

Then about ten days after his big sister flew, I went out to the garden and the nest was empty.  I felt like his mother, not knowing whether to cheer or cry.  I was sure he was gone forever.  Then suddenly I heard him, and there he sat in the same tree, but fifteen feet higher!  He stayed there the whole time I was out in the garden, but in the evening he was gone.  

The next morning, I walked my path and heard him again.  High in the air he circled over me then settled on a limb only 7 or 8 feet off the ground, and directly across the fence from where I stood, calling to me.  As soon as I reached that point in my walk and started talking, he hushed and sat there cocking his head again, until I told him it had been nice talking with him, but I really needed to finish my walk and today’s garden work.  He called awhile longer while I walked, sometimes changing trees to be nearby, but eventually flew off.  

Every day that summer he would come back in the mornings and find a tree near me so we could talk awhile.  He eventually figured out where I disappeared and once landed on the roof of the porch where we could see him and he could see us through the window while we ate.  Then things happened.  I had some surgeries, some complications, and for a few weeks was unable to walk.  He disappeared and winter came.  Now I knew he was gone for good.

Late in January I heard him outside one morning.  Yes, when you have heard one hawk often enough, you can actually tell him apart from the others.  I ran outside and called out to him.  He stopped and listened, then flew away.  It had been long enough, I suppose, that his natural fear of man had taken over, but it was still a nice moment in the day.  But ever since that day, if I am late getting outside to walk, I hear him calling from high in the sky, and he flies overhead for most of the time I am walking.  He will not let me get close, but he will land in trees close to the house to call at least, until I come outside.

I think God allows natural things to happen when we need them—things that encourage us, that help us overcome a temptation or get past a bad moment in the day; brethren we see in our day in unusual places, paths that cross when they can most help one another.  I am a long way out and not likely to have those sorts of things, but maybe God has sent me this hawk.  I know he reminds me of one of my favorite passages in the Bible—even though he is a hawk and not an eagle.  But we will never get the benefit of those providential things if we are not paying attention.  

So be aware today of the things that happen, the people you see, and the thoughts that cross your mind—maybe even that hymn that goes round and round in your head like a broken record.  Maybe it was Heaven sent.

They that wait on Jehovah shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk, and not faint.  Isa 40:31  

Dene Ward