What I hear, instead, is a barking dog.
My eyes turn toward the sound. Three young children capture my glance. Three wee, brown, wide-eyed children. Their own stares are fixed,wary. A woman and her dog (a tiny bit of thing; a tuft of black fur on the end of a too-long leash) have rounded the corner and are coming toward the kids. Their eyes do not leave that dog.
To her credit, the woman skirts their small crowd by walking on the street beside them. As she nears, the little boy backs himself up onto the nearest lawn. The dog-master of that particular patch of green does not appreciate the intrusion and, from his station just inside the front door of the house, lets fly a threatening clamor of snarling and wild barking.
The little boy is frozen to the spot. Behind him, a noisy menace, in front of him a stranger wielding another furry threat. His sisters, meanwhile, are caught in this same drama. The eldest sits, locked in one position, on her bicycle. The smallest of the three, a tiny, delicate girl is slowly inching her way down the street, away from what all seems very scary.
The dog walker, a woman of immense proportions, slows her pace, her too-small eyes, and wobbling chin drawing to a near halt in front of the kids. My attention heightens as she, shockingly, spews, "Whatsa' matter? Scared of dogs? Huh?" she demands. "Are ya'?"
She's directing her sneer at the boy on the lawn, ignoring the nearby girls. His eyes do not move from the dog on the leash. His back tensed, hands unmoving in front of his heaving torso, he chokes out a quiet, "No..."
"You ARE. You. Are. Scared. Of. DOGS." Her tone is low and mean. "Why d'you say yer not when you are?" she charges. I make a sound from my place across the street, hoping to draw her attention away from the frightened ones. Suddenly aware that she is not alone, she picks up her lumbering pace. I stare after her, willing her to say one more thing, to make one backward glance. If she does, I'll be after her. She does not.
I carry on in the opposite direction, leaving the children to patch themselves up with reassuring touch and careful play.
The frustrations and fears of my own day quickly crowd my thoughts. I am often immobilized by the barking dogs and bloated, accusing interlopers of my own my mind.
Aren't we all.
With a noisy threat behind us and a wispy unknown out front, Depression, Failure, Emptiness, Fear waddle their way into our thoughts with their spitting accusations of "This is all you are. This is all you will ever be. Don't deny it. You know it's true." And with the fears pressing on all sides, and that voice sounding so sure, so potent, it's hard to disregard the stinging slander.
And then comes that distraction from across the street. Someone bigger than we are can see what's going on ~~ can see it for what it really is. Someone that is not unsettled by noise makers or uncertainty. Someone who can hear our over-inflated, mean-spirited attacker for who she really is. Someone who can send her on her way.
That Someone knows. He watches. He waits. He intervenes. To a point. And when the danger has passed, sometimes He stays outside of the drama, gently observing as those of us caught in these moments of pain and wrong and uncertainty move toward each other. He trusts that we'll reassure each other, redirect each other, remind each other that all is well. That sometimes the threats aren't real, they're just clamoring distractions and furry nothings. That always the cursing meanness is just an over-indulged bully.
The near summer sun begins it's long, slow settling. I walk. I accomplish my errand and connect with a friend for the rest of my evening exercise. And my gaze shifts from street dramas and a full day toward the Someone that is bigger than I, thankful that He is watching.
The Lord is faithful...He will protect you from the evil one.
2 Thessalonians
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