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| Crowder, Cement Dogs (& a Song) |
By Danielle Kimmey
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Here's a great little devotional from Mr. Crowder & the DC Band song Never Let Go... enjoy!
Sitting next to our armoire, in what my wife and I refer to as, “The TV Room,” is a dog. He is made of concrete. He has a very amiable, distinguished look about him and is fantastically well behaved, the quintessence of dependability. It’s the closest we can bring ourselves to pet or progeny. We named him Asta, after a dog from an old black and white series called, “The Thin Man,” which, tangentially, starred William Powell and Myrna Loy. And close we are, the concrete dog and us. We greet him upon entering the room. “Asta. Down boy!” We pat the little guy on the head, rewarding his immediate response. “Stay!” Complete obedience. Sometimes I’ll ask him if he needs to go out. He doesn’t, though he’s definitely been outside at some point, as his paint is quite weathered and faded, leaving him a worldly-wise facade. “Hey, Asta! Fetch!!” Nothing.
We recently returned from a trip to find Asta’s left foreleg lying on the ground in front of him. It was a clean break, just above the knee. Do dogs have knees? Regardless, there it was, Asta’s leg, lying on the ground. We gasped.
My imagination is much too vivid for this sort of thing. While I began pondering inanimate animation and the linguistic tensions of paired antitheses, my wife began recounting a portion of her childhood spent sneaking back to her bedroom after she’d left, as she was convinced all of her dolls got up and danced around the room as soon as she exited. She never caught them. But here, this was hard evidence; Asta’s concrete left front leg on our floor. I picked it up. He looked calm, much too calm for a dog whose detached leg was being held in my hand a good three feet away from where it should be affixed.
“Asta, what have you been up to,” I asked?
No response.
I suggested we call the vet. My wife suggested I quit trying to be so funny and just get the superglue. Moments later I held little Asta, applying the quick-dry magical liquid while patting his head and whispering reassurances: “This will only hurt briefly,” and, “She wouldn’t let me call anyone.”
Days later I was sitting on the couch, looking at Astor’s leg. I could barely spot the horizontally mended line. It’s there, but if you came over I suspect you wouldn’t notice unless I pointed it out. Then, while starring at Asta’s mended left foreleg, I was reminded of one of my favorite sentences in scripture. In Second Kings, chapter twenty, Hezekiah, the King of Israel, is ill and near the point of death. He is told by the prophet Isaiah to put his house in order, as he will soon die. The King prays, “Remember, O Lord, how I have walked before you faithfully and with wholehearted devotion and have done what is good in your eyes.” And then he weeps. The dying King weeps. And what happens? God responds with arguably the most arresting words imaginable for someone in Hezekiah’s state: “I have heard your prayer and seen your tears; I will heal you.”
And He does. The God of Israel heals the King.
What beauty! What a singularly divine response!
This God hears and sees the faithful; those damaged, those in need of repair. And He mends them! I know this first hand. I know what it feels like to have been picked up and held while things were put back together.
I thought of all this while sitting on the couch starring at Asta’s leg. And I thought I should remind you. If you need mending: He hears and repairs. If you feel the remains of past scarring: Let them be a sign to those starring at you from a safe distance, wondering what this magical thing could be that’s holding you together.
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