I find it strange that fear can drive us from our place of safety. It would make more sense, that if you were afraid, you would seek that refuge. But, perhaps, it is not really fear at all. Perhaps it is shame.
Ever since the pit bull attack, I have been Amos' refuge. Me. My shoulders. My person. When he is afraid, he climbs atop my shoulders. If I try to just hold him, he will still struggle to get up there. When he is merely afraid, he will beg to be picked up and then settle himself against my body, legs dangling down, head resting on my shoulder. If I hold him long enough (which is getting to be too difficult), he will go to sleep.
In short, I am almost never alone when in the house. Neither is he. I am his refuge. And he hides himself in me whenever fear takes him.
A few days ago, I realized that Amos had left the back of the couch, where he perches when I am writing. I usually lean my head back against his body, but I had been squinting at the computer screen. I called his name. Nothing. I gave the command: Come. Nothing. Amos has actually gotten very good at that command, so I was surprised.
I will admit that fear raced through me at the moment. I am afraid of losing my constant companion, my fluffy white comfort. When I take the trash out, turn back around, and fail to spot Amos in the yard, I call his name immediately. I am always afraid someone might have left the gates open and he would get out. I do not know if, given the opportunity, Amos would run away. But, since I am unable to run or give chase myself, I do not want to find out. In Alexandria, I had people cut through my yard and eventually locked the gates using the hole in the latch. But I do not have those locks anymore. I forgot them when I moved. I try to remember to check the back and side gate before I open the door, but remembering is one of my poorest skills now. So, despite my better sense, whenever Amos is not at my side, fear begins to rise within me.
However, when Amos did not come at command, I remembered that he had leapt off the couch and walked around a bit whilst I was working. I did not remember if he asked to go out, but I knew he had. I knew he had because I suddenly knew why Amos was absent.
Dragging myself off the couch, I looked first on the parlor carpet (because no fetid oder had wafted my way whilst typing) and then I climbed the stairs. Sure enough, where my last visitor's dog had had several accidents was a small pile of poop. I called Amos' name, but he still did not come. So, I decided to clean up the mess before searching him out.
I am not sure where Amos was hiding, but when I looked back up the hallway after flushing the poop in the toilet, I spotted a nose peeking around the corner from the main stair case. I finished cleaning, whilst keeping an eye out for my puppy. But he did not move. When I walked over to the stairs, I saw that Amos was stretched across three of them, his chin resting on the carpet. He just looked at me.
Amos knew he had done something wrong. But, instead of seeking out his refuge, he fled. This was not the first time this had happened ... perhaps the third. However, it just dawned on me that I am fairly certain Amos was thinking about the consequences of what he had done. Was he afraid? Was he ashamed? Both?
I do not hit him or anything. As I have blogged before, I have worked hard to control my reaction when he has accidents from fear of strangers in the house. And if he has an accident because I did notice his asking to go out or if I try to do something on the way to the back yard and he is not able to wait I also hold my tongue. After all, if he asks, it is my responsibility to provide for him.
This running away and hiding ... this prolonged absence ... is new with him. He has actually had an accident right in front of me. Not so much an accident as just relieved himself. But we are really past that. He asks. Unless a new workman or visitor has really scared him, Amos only has accidents when I have failed to notice or—with my short-term memory loss—forgotten his requests.
Now, we just had a house guest with a dog that is pad trained and that had many accidents, confusing Amos mightily. During that stay, Amos had several indoor incidents, but I worked hard with him on that and once they were gone, we were back to proper behavior. In a way, I don't blame him. How could he possibly understand that one dog can tend to business inside and the other must do so outside?
Anyway, all of this is to say that, in that moment, I realized just how much alike Amos and I am. When I am aware of my sin, when its weight is bearing down upon me, I am afraid of the very refuge where I spend so much of my time: The sweet, sweet Gospel. Christ crucified for me.
Of course, for me, there is an element of shame mixed within my fear. I am ashamed that I have not honored all that Jesus has given me ... and the patience. I know that might not make sense, but when you struggle with the same things again and again and again, even you weary of your struggle, your fear, your shame, your doubts, your despair. You begin to wonder just how many times you can be forgiven. Surely not again.
It is a terrible thing to want something so much and be afraid of it at the same time.
Afraid your refuge will be gone.
Afraid your forgiveness will be no more.
Ashamed that you would need it again.
Ashamed that you would want it.
I wonder why Amos hides from me. When I am at an appointment or at the store, Amos is besides himself upon my return. Jumping up and down until I stop and pick him up. Normally careful not to entangle himself in my feet, he will walk all around me as I set my things down, as if assuring himself that I am really home, that I am really hear with him. For him. So much am I his world and yet he runs away and hides when struggling with his shame and fear. He runs away and hides when all he knows of me is love and acceptance and care and defense.
Longing and fearing.
Fearing and yet knowing.
Knowing and yet fearing still.
The good gifts of Christ sustain me, heal me. Again and again and again. Not once has the Living Word failed me. Not once has Christ's body and blood hurt me. The Promise is still for me. No matter how much I fear. No matter how ashamed I am. The Psalter is overflowing with just how much God knows us, knows our fears and sins and longings, and yet forgives and saves and shelters. Why cannot the knowing be stronger than the fear?
Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief!
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