I Am Remembered

By Lisa Fitts
By Herbert Yoo
By Cymone Canada
By Dave Grogan
By Arnie Fenton
By Dan Millner
By Alex Joseph
By Samantha Harton
By Bailey Catone
By Colin Campbell
By Barb Harris
By Mark Mercer
By Sereena Bexley
By Vennecia Jackson
By Mary Lata Thottukadavil
By Michael Agnew
By Kristie Davis
By AJ Jerkins
By Caroline Smiley
By Kathy Whitthorne
By Dawn Johnson
By DJ Newman
By Mary Weyand
By Rob Nickell
By Kathy Whitthorne
By Nila Odom
By Sherene Joseph Rajadurai
By Kristi Sheffy
By Sharon Arrington
By Sarah Crawford
By Betsy Paul
By Angel Piña
By Elizabeth Piña
By Chris Kuykendall
By Matt Holland
By Jessie Yearwood
By Brian Severski
By Brian Arrington
By Will Meier
By Clint Calhoun
By Jen Mayes
By Jim Henry
By Kevin Harwood
By Leah Vanhorn
By Janett Miller
By Isaac Harris
By Chad Golden
By Jonathan Cortina
By Kuruvilla (K.O.) Oommen
By John Dyer
By Abe Paul
By Lauren Geppert
By Jennifer Durrett
By Jill Asibelua
By Jared Barnett
By Paul Martin
By Norm Headlam
By Kristi Herring
By Sissy Mathew
By Shannon Pugh
By Al Palamara
By Michelle Garza
By Armando Galvan
By Camille Holland
By Rod Myers
By Crystal Elwell
By Darcy Peterson
By Jason Elwell
By Barry Jones
By Bryan Eck
By Tricia Kinsman
By Craig Pierce
By Jim Woodward
By Andy McQuitty
By Kevin Dial
By Corbin Pierce
By Claire St. Amant
By Julie K. Rhodes
By Anonymous
By Jasmine Bibbs
By Debra Fournerat
By Kat Armstrong
By Jeffery Link
By Courtney Faucett
By Lenae Moore
By Tiffany Stein
By Andy Webb
By Catherine Boyle
By Catherine & Elizabeth Downing
By Gerald Ridgway
By Jill Hoenig
By Sunitha John
By Tarrin Henry
By RozeLee Rugh
By Beverly Hogan
By Kendra Cordero
By Lisa Gajewski
By Bonnie Goree
By Young-Sam Won
By Chris Beach
By Tom Rugh
By Nick Vuicich
By Andy Franks
By Lead Team
By Jason Roszhart
By Harvard Medical School
By Justin K. Hughes, MA, LPC
By Sherene Joseph
By Earl Davidson
By Rebecca Perry
By Joe Padilla
By Christian Melendez
By Bruce Riley
By Isaac Harris
By Amy Leadabrand
By Ben Haile
By Shaun Robinson
By Natalie Franks
By Cathy Barnett
By Ryan Sanders
By Casey Pruet, The Grace Alliance
By Sharon Arrington
By Lauren Chapin
By Betsy Paul
By Alberto Negron
By Kelly Jarrell
By Michelle Mayes
By Jenn Wright
By Jill Jackson
By Terri Moore
By Robyn Wise
By Katherine Holloway
By Richard Ray
By Kurtlery Knight
By Bruce Hebel
By Neil Tomba
By Tony Bridwell
By Grayson McGovern
By Luke Donohoo
By Kathy Whitthorne
By Mike Moore
By Wade Raper
By Mike Gwartney
By Jo Saxton
By Dieula Previlon
By Jonathan Cude
By Ken Lawrence
By Jay Hohfeler
By Barb Haesecke
By Lindsay Casillas
By JoAnn Hummel
By Shawn Small
By Alice McQuitty
By Jonathan Murphy
By Peggy Norton
By Brent McKinney
By Irving Bible Church
By Irving Bible Church
By Ashley Tieperman
By Betsy Nichols
By Trey Grant
By Debbie Lucien
By Sue Edwards
By Suzie Robinson
By Paul Smith

In recent weeks, I have launched a massive passive-aggressive campaign against my husband. Up until about six weeks ago in our 12-year marriage, there has been a quiet, mostly unspoken agreement that we would remain dog-less, much as some people choose to remain childless. But, like so many things in our particular marriage, Gordon has gotten more than he bargained for.

The truth of it is, I have simply fallen victim to the massive passive-aggression of our children, who have wanted a dog since before they were born. They forlornly drag around unhooked swings from the swingset by the chains, pretending to be walking their dogs. LOOK HOW PITIFUL WE ARE, they imply. WE ARE TURNING PLAYGROUND EQUIPMENT INTO PETS BECAUSE OUR PARENTS ARE MONSTERS.

After recently pet-sitting another more benevolent family’s Goldendoodle, the kids have been wearing me down like the nub of a pencil eraser. The passive aggression has evolved into actual aggression, and I am afraid of them now. 

And so, I decided on a breed, secretly. And on a name, secretly. His name is Randy and he is a pug.

I started following a pug breeder on Facebook. There are pictures every day of puppy pugs tumbling around in a kiddie swimming pool-turned-pug-playground. As fate would have it, my son’s third grade teacher happens to be a pug fanatic and rescuer, and has pictures of pugs all over her classroom. I have begun snapping pictures of them quickly, silently, like a stalker.  A month ago, I bought a pug pillow that now sits on our bed. The dog is dressed like a gentleman with round spectacles and a bowler hat.

And just about every other day or so, I text my husband a picture of the latest pug I have encountered that day. Here’s a pug in a cowboy hat. A just-born litter of pugs. The screensaver on my phone is now of one of Mrs. Johnson’s classroom pugs, with a hoodie pulled up around his head, earbuds in his ears, and a gold chain around his neck. Thug Randy, I call him. And I see him whenever Gordon calls ME to complain about all the pugs I send him. Last week, after seeing a stuffed pug in a toy store and texting his picture to Gordon, I received a text back: “Now THAT’S a dog I could get behind.” I’m not sure if Randy will ever be part of our family. I’m not sure what the future holds, but I’m sure of what I WANT it to hold, and so I make sure that the powers-that-be are FULLY AWARE. What else can I do? Besides act more like an emotionally balanced human woman?

I think we do this with God, just as we do it with our husbands, wives, bosses, and government employees. We continually send him mental snapshots of what we want. “Don’t forget!” we seem to say. “Don’t forget this longing of mine! Don’t forget ME.” We hound and we hound and we text and we hound and we crochet pillows for God’s bed.

But when God doesn’t respond, doesn’t fix it, provide it, or give us a reason for it, day after day and year after year, maybe the next step is for me to make a decision. And I think the basis of this decision is found in Isaiah 49.

God is responding to Israel’s assumption that he had forgotten them in their Babylonian exile. The Babylonian captivity of the Jews lasted 70 years — a long time to be sending God snapshots of your faraway home; a long time for longing. It would have been a lifetime for some. There were probably Jews who, every day, pled with God to take them home. Please, please, please, please. Has he forgotten? God responds:

Can a mother forget the baby at her breast     
and have no compassion on the child she has borne?
Though she may forget,     
I will not forget you!
See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands;
your walls are ever before me.
(vs. 15-16)

If my incessant pug-ing of my husband makes it hard to forget my request, imagine a nursing baby, who, every two HOURS is crying for its mother’s milk in order to survive. How could she ignore that? And then picture God, who has carved our names into his hands with nails. How could he forget these names?

So my decision becomes: will I choose to believe I am remembered? That my name has been engraved? Trust must be on purpose, and sometimes it must be a desperate rebellion against the facts.

Will you pray a prayer of trust-rebellion with me today? 

Lord Jesus, giver of all good gifts,
You delivered your people from Babylon;
You deliver your people from sin. 

You hear my cries, my longings, my sighs;
You have compassion for me. 

You remember me; I rest.
You engrave my name; I exhale.

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