This morning, as I was getting out of the shower, I heard the familiar sound of Dakota, now five months old, dashing across the house as she does dozens of times a day. Through the kitchen, through the dining room, up on the couch, and back down again in seconds. She races around and over or under every obstacle in her path with the grace of a dancer and speed of a track star. A blur of unstoppable teeth and claws and silky brown-black fur.
But for the amazing accuracy of the dance (which surely must be controlled by something), during these spurts of wild rampage, our dervish seems utterly oblivious of the needs of any body outside her own.
The next sound I heard was my husband’s reasoning voice.
“Dakota, eat your food.”
The fantastical idea that a simple, calm directive, spoken in English — not Dervish — could sway a canine tornado gives the Lord’s “faith-of-a-mustard-seed” promise fresh meaning.
That’s the faith I want to have.
By the time I was dressed, Dakota and Sophie had eaten their breakfasts and were out in the yard to complete their morning chores.
I followed their example a short time later and went off to work, buoyed by the notion that I could move a mountain.