Every bound toward me, every plaintive cry, every puppy kiss and the way her muscles relax in my presence teaches me a little more about worship.
She’s delicious, sugar and butter rolled up into the shape of a very large puppy. Emmy, our 6-month-old Labrador, is sweetness herself.
I sneak out of the communal bedroom, four canines and a husband snoring while I make coffee, open my Bible, or ride the bike. But as soon as I hear the door to the bedroom open, I freeze. I know exactly what I will hear. It goes like this:
Thumpity-thumpity-thumpity-thump.
Pause.
Thumpity-thump.
Longer pause. I sit, tense.
Thumpity-thumpity-thumpity- thumpity-thumpity- thumpity-thumpity. Stop.
She’s looking for me.
“Where? Where is she? Where’s that one that makes me feel so good?” she’s thinking.
“Emmy!” Hubby’s voice is raised. He has worked late, and is eager to get the dogs outside, then climb back in bed to finish his sleep. And I quickly wrap up whatever I’m doing and come out to the great room for some worship lessons.
Emmy is looking for me everywhere and is overjoyed when I appear. She comes to a stop at my feet, her furry behind sliding sideways into my foot, and quivering, she looks up at me with adoring black eyes, emitting little, delighted squeaks which interpreted mean, “Oh, I thought I’d never find you! You are… you are… you are the best thing ever! Oh, please snuggle me; please, oh, please!"
Early on I asked the Lord, “Is this what it feels like to be worshipped? That eager obedience, that delight in my presence?”
I felt His smile and His yes. “Yes, I love it when you look for me, when you trust my love implicitly, and when you obey my call immediately.”
“With Emmy enthusiasm?”
“Yes,” He smiled. “With eager anticipation of good things. Either now, or eventually. With trust.”
I would think of that when, outdoors on our unfenced acreage, I would call my little yellow fur ball and hold my breath, slightly fearful that she may have discovered the wild call of the woods. Would she come, or would she go her own way?
After a moment of suspense, yellow fur would come tearing around the corner at a gallop so fast she could take my feet out from under me.
“Like this, Lord?”
“Yes. Like that. Knowing that I’m always good, and you are always loved. Prompt obedience.”
Back inside the house she would sidle up to me and gently lean her head on my leg as I washed the dishes.
“Like this, too?”
“Yes. Lean on me. I’ll always comfort you. You are my beloved, too.”
Every bound toward me, every plaintive cry, every puppy kiss and the way her muscles relax in my presence teaches me a little more about worship.
. . . . . . . . . .
Worship is running toward the Father.
“Worship” is a word we often use synonymously with singing, and we do hope it is the posture of our heart when we sing to or about God. But worship isn’t singing. Worship is adoration. Worship is moving toward God in implicit trust and delight. And that is, thankfully, something we can do just as well if we sing horribly and off-key or sing like an angel.
Today one of our pastors, Ed Sutter, preached his last Sunday morning sermon to us. Tomorrow he will wake up a retired man, after ministering in our church for 38 years. Thirty-eight years! Not flashy, often unseen, but faithful, and faithful, and faithful some more. And in his final sermon, Ed encouraged us all to keep our eye on the finish line, and just keep moving forward.
“Press forward,” he said. “Not faster, but deeper.”
Worship is knowing where love and safety lie.
Worship is stopping to notice God, enjoy Him, hear Him.
Worship is trust and surrender, pressing in close.
Worship is running toward the Father.
. . . . . . . . . . .
At six months, Emmy is now heading into adolescence. Sometimes her energy surprises even Emmy. She can go from a placid nap to tearing around the sofa at 90 mph in about 3 seconds.
Once she vaulted from the floor to the bench and over the footboard of my bed in the time it takes to say, “Once she…” She looked a little startled, but was quite delighted to find the reward of my presence waiting there. Her whole body language reminds me of the chorus,
"I just want to be where you are,
Dwelling daily in your presence.
I don't want to worship from afar;
Draw me near to where you are."[1]
Emmy knows my habits and rhythms, and from her crate at night she softly murmurs, “Please?” in a sweet, high prayer when she wants to be with me. When the answer is no, you hear in her new adolescent voice the low bass notes of “Harumph,” before she gives up and goes to sleep.
She discovered deer this week, and it sent a chill of fear through me as she dashed after one that bounded off into the Big Woods before the sun was up. Smells, also, can stop her instantly in her tracks, and suddenly she is deaf as her nose eclipses her hearing and she traces the path of a turkey or squirrel with her nose to the ground. She’s accurate; she’s doing what her breeding is calling her to do. But she’s not listening to me, and that is where trouble begins.
“Emmy! EMMY! HERE!!!" I call, and I find my spirit tensing.
I remember this same flush of fear when my daughter was an adolescent. How do you keep that unconditional love pouring out, while also teaching boundaries that will take their future in a healthy direction?
Emmy is a retriever, born and bred. Already she’s been shadowing her mom and grandma and even great grandma as we play fetch daily. The older labs run out as we call their name, leap to catch the ball, and then return it, dropping it at our feet. It’s exercise, but it’s also training for future bird retrieves. Emmy was born with this instinct, too, but it is a skill that needs to be under our control, not hers. She will need to trust us implicitly, and come every single time we call, bending her will to ours, if we are going to trust her in the hunting field.
So I hold my breath when a scent or a bounding deer lures Emmy into the forest. Will she trust me? Will she submit to my authority? Or will she follow whatever scent is calling her, and feed on those tantalizing and filthy forest morsels instead of the good things I have in mind for her?
Will she run to me? Every time I call?
And that’s what worship is. Running toward the Father. Every time He calls.
"The finish line," says Pastor Ed, "is not a place, but a Person."
“The finish line is not a place, but a person.” --Ed Sutter
. . . . . . . . . .
All of this is not really about my puppy or my daughter, but about my own relationship to my heavenly Father.
“I do that, too, don’t I?” I say to the One who is all around me, as I stand waiting for Emmy to respond. I’m thinking about the times He is calling and I’m not responding.
“Yes. You sometimes close your ear to my call. You don’t want to stop what you’re doing. You want to justify it.”
It’s true.
“I love it when you come running,” he reminds me.
“I know,” I say. “I understand. I want to be that person—tuned in to Your voice. Unquestioning obedience.”
“My arms always welcome you.”
“Yes. They do. And those important detours always turn out to be dumb in the end.”
I think He’s nodding, and maybe chuckling.
. . . . . . . . . .
As I write, my little Emmy is across the room from me, getting curious about the electrical outlets, nudging them with her pretty, black nose.
“Tst,” I vocalize, soft as a whisper.
She immediately looks up, walks over, lays her head beside me on the couch. This time she's listening, and trusts me enough to obey. I stroke her soft fur, and she curls up at my feet.
“Like that, Lord. I want to listen and respond like that.”
“Yes, like that,” He smiles. “Like that.”
Worship is leaning in to experience God’s love.
Worship is tuning our ear to the sound of His voice.
Worship is trust and surrender and obedience.
Worship is returning to Him again and again and again and again.
Listening and teaching my soul to say a quick “yes” is the discipline, the daily rhythm, the call on which all my future successes will be grounded.
Words from scripture drift through my mind, affirming my thoughts. This, too, is the fruit of many small, past yesses.
Me: “My heart says of you, ‘Seek his face!’ Your face, LORD, I will seek.” (Psalm 27:8, NIV)
He: “You will seek Me and find Me when you search for Me with all your heart.” (Jeremiah 29:13, BSB)
I know that on the way to my own finish line there will be highlights and big changes and laughter and successes. More successes if I’m listening, worshipping with wholehearted obedience, saying “yes” quickly. If I come running with joy.
But I know there will be sad chapters in my future story, too, and a chill runs through me.
“And surely I am with you always, even to the end of the age,” the Holy Spirit quickly whispers (Mt 28:20, BSB).
“Do not fear, for I am with you; do not anxiously look about you, for I am your God. I will strengthen you, surely I will help you. Surely I will uphold you with My righteous right hand” (Isaiah 41:10, NASB).
“Yes. I know,” I say.
Surely.
I pause to ponder and make sure I’m sure. Make sure I’m stopping to believe what is absolutely true.
Emmy has now curled up beside me, sleeping peacefully against my elbow, and my spirit is doing the same with my own Master. I silently whisper back to Him,
“I will lie down and sleep in peace, for You alone, O LORD, make me dwell in safety” (Psalm 4:8, BSB).
Thanks, Emmy darling, for the worship lessons.
Enjoy this link to "Run to the Father" Church stream with Cody Carnes and Kari Jobe:
[1] Moen, Donald James. I Just Want to Be Where You Are.
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