Let me love You like she loved me

One doesn’t just “get over” a love like Rosy. And I don’t mean the love I have for her. I mean the love she had for me. The way she looked at me, comforted me, wagged in greeting for me. Even when someone else was petting her, she would look around the room to see if I was there. I was hers and she was mine. She and I had an everlasting connection.

So, on the front porch this morning, God and I had a chat:

Me: I want to love You like Rosy loved me. With big eyes, filled completely with adoration. As if there was no one else in the room.

God: That’s the way I love you.

Me: Now I know how sad you feel, how much you grieve, when I leave your side and lose my way.

God: No, Wendy. Remember how you walked with Rosy in her maturity? She, wandering the wrong way to the wrong door or up the wrong drive? You didn’t scold her; you just turned her aright. There was never any doubt of the bond of love. You were privileged to be patient as she ambled along and resisted, confused on her way home. But you prodded and guided her. Just as I prod and guide you. You weren’t angry, just resolute. And amused.

In your maturity, Wendy, I guide you like that. I have given you Rosy-colored glasses to see the world through your golden love. Like you loved her, I love you.

You didn’t expect her to recover and bolt out to change the world. Just look up and come when you called her. And when she grew lame and hard of hearing, maybe just to wag when she saw you. And never take her eyes off you.

Wendy, look up when I call. When you see me, wag. Not your tongue, but your pen.

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Me: Lord, give me a heart like Rosy’s.