Buck and Cruz 

 

I’d just walked in the door with a bag of groceries in my arms. Seeing Scott, I could tell he had bad news. The look on his face made me want to sit down before he spoke. “I ran over Buck,” he said, and my knees about buckled. “I didn’t kill him, but I don’t know how bad he’s hurt.”

Buck is our amazing English lab. Big and white and sweet as a teddy bear, in the year we’ve had him, he’s stolen our hearts. The previous summer, he replaced May, the tiny rat terrier Scott ran over in our driveway on sad July morning.

A long list of dogs have been crushed under either my dad or husband’s truck tires. These men drive big diesel pickups and we live in the country. I’ve yelled at the dogs, spanked the dogs, locked the dogs up for dancing around the tires, but through the years, they’ve been smashed time and again until my heart seems battered beyond repair with all the dogs we’ve buried.

After putting the groceries down, I found Buck in the yard unwilling to move. He has these deep, soulful, hangdog eyes anyway, and he looked at me more hangdog than ever. Scott had followed me. “I ran over his hind end with the front wheels of the truck. Luke saw it and screamed for me to stop. Buck made it back to the house on his own, but he’s messed up.” Scott’s eyes ached with grief, but I had no words to comfort him.

“How far did he walk after you ran him over?” I asked.

“From the orchard,” Scott answered. “I didn’t want to pick him up. I was afraid I’d hurt him worse if I carried him. But I laid hands on Buck and prayed over him in the orchard.” I could hear the hope syrup thick and sweet in Scott’s voice.

“Can we take him to the vet?” I asked, knowing we couldn’t afford it.

“No,” Scott said, and then I got angry. Mad at my husband and mad at God.

A year ago, before May died, before the cancer, and the exhaustion breakdown, and some other painful things, I would have done the same thing: laid hands on Buck and prayed full of hope for healing. Now, I felt prayerless, hopeless, and hours later, the hope in Scott’s voice still haunted me as I folded all the little boy clothes in our dryer. Had my faith taken such a beating these past 12 months that hope escaped me now? Life was sad, and bad things happened all the time, and the words of Job echoed in my ears. “Shall we accept good from God and not trouble?” Job 2:10. I was getting used to embracing this verse.

Later that night, before going to bed after barely speaking all afternoon, Scott and I finally prayed together. My husband admitted he felt despair, too. “Why do I keep running over our dogs? And this year has been really hard. All these bad thoughts are bombarding me. It’s like a battle for my mind, but it’s really a battle for my heart,” Scott said in the darkness. My heart felt under siege, too.

Tears soaking my pillow, I finally drifted off to sleep with the box fan humming in the window.

Deep in the night, I awoke sensing evil in the room. On Scott’s side of the bed, a black shadow figure loomed. My arm hairs stood on end and my nerves jerked with fear. “Away from us in Jesus name,” I softly said, heart-thumping loud as the black shadow disappeared.

In the morning, the sun shone brightly though our bedroom window. “His mercies are new every morning,” the thought awakened me like a voice. Once in awhile (not nearly enough) this happens. I wake with a scripture rolling across my senses, putting a smile on my face, and pouring grace into my day.

A short while later, Scott spoke the same scripture in the kitchen over coffee, not knowing I was thinking it, too. Buck was up and walking, but not very well. Instead of bringing up the issue of taking him to the vet again, I held my peace, and prayed instead. When Scott left for a run, I walked out to Buck and laid hands on his soft, white fur. “In Jesus name I ask for healing, but not as I will, your will be done, Lord.” Surrender came easy after the prayer, unlike how I used to pray determined to move God my way. Maybe this was one of the lessons of the year of hardship: how to gently surrender to God even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.

An hour later, returning from his run, Scott said, “I called Jerry. He didn’t answer, but I left him a message.”

“Can I phone the clinic and see if Jerry’s working today?” I eagerly asked. Jerry is our friend and our vet. I was thrilled Scott had contacted him.

Scott agreed, and hope surged through me. Five minutes later, Scott and I carefully loaded Buck in the truck. Before leaving, Scott turned to me and his grief touched me like a hand. “We might have to put him down depending on his injury.”

“I know.” Tears rushed to my eyes, dampening my hope. “Tell Jerry to mail us the bill. We’ll work it off with the fruit.” I’d recently joined my mom selling fruit at the Farmer’s Markets. Scott had begun picking fruit in my brother’s orchards as we struggled to make ends meet. It wasn’t my dream of writing the summer away while Scott tended the boys, but here again was the scent of surrender in the smell of peaches.

An hour later, we got our miracle. Though, Scott’s 7,400 pound pickup had rolled over Buck, no bones were broken and our beloved pup had no internal injuries. Just a slight separation of the hipbone that would heal on it’s own because Buck was young and still growing.

I hadn’t known how much I needed a miracle until it came our way this week. I’m so grateful that tonight Buck is lying in his favorite spot on our front porch. He’s on pain pills, but seems nearly normal today, hardly limping at all. Thank the LORD for his mercy in this miracle.

“Because of the LORD’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness,” Lamentations 3:22-23.