Walking With Molly: Part 3

by Shelley Knick

So much has changed since Molly left. When she passed, I knew that she had come to mother me. Odd, however, because I have a mother. A great mother! But at that time in my adult life, I needed an unrealistic level of attention. My friends, husband, and family members couldn’t fill the crack in my leaky bucket, and I know this because I tried to consume them as if they could.

So, I consumed God instead, and He responded in abundant grace—with a touch of humor. In a type of poetic justice, He delivered a tongue in cheek response to what I needed: A soul who literally had nothing to do but spend her waking hours watching me, waiting for me, and walking with me. Albeit needy, without judgement, God simply met my need.

Since she left, we moved three times, fell into pits of ridiculous tragedy, and summited mountains of miraculous victory. The groundwork laid during our time together proved to be instrumental to thriving during the chaos. As the saying goes, “suffering vines makes great wines.” She taught me about calm submission and divine harmony, both about which I have previously written. Lastly, she trained me to focus when walking the gauntlet.

The road we walked was perfectly straight, with a cul de sac at one end and a 90-degree bend at the other. It was lined with twenty-four, five-acre properties. Almost every house had a dog. For properties with perimeter fences, the resident dogs behaved like savages. They would run full force and charge the fence when we walked by. The barking, the growling, and the fury could make any pulse race. If I could feel it, imagine what it did to Molly’s primal nature.

The upside-down fact in her training was that while primal, she wasn’t allowed to behave primally. As unfair as it sounds, I was calling her to be more than a beast. Rest assured, the blood bath that could erupt if she were given the chance to unleash was unquestionable. Regardless of her capability to dominate, those neighbor dogs existed to make her who she was meant to be with me. We walked that road like it was the gauntlet. It was every bit the technical meaning of the word: Two rows of characters lined up on opposite sides of each other to assault the one who traveled the space between them.

So, we walked. I dictated the pace and tempo. I used specific physical pressures with leash and collar to prompt and remind her to focus on me. I made audible sounds to signal her to listen to my voice. I even adjusted my placement next to her to train her to keep a constant awareness of my presence. This was because her attention had to be anchored in her Alpha.

I would intentionally fade from her when I could see her attention had been hijacked. When I could tell she was locked into the opposition, I would drift back. When it was evident that she wasn’t aware, I would purposefully take off running in the opposite direction, which provided a quick choke. It also snapped her out of that state and returned her awareness back to my presence. With her attention back on me, we continued, and she would obsessively verify my location. This pattern repeated to strengthen her bonded attention.

Fixing our eyes on Jesus is about our attention. The training isn’t punishment. The distractions might be strategically placed. Our repetitive return to the gauntlet could be exactly what will bond our attention to an invincible state, thereby proving that the daily walk is a vehicle for God’s compounding affect.

About The Author Shelley is an aspiring writer. She is also a nurse, a wife to her high school sweetheart of 22 years, a brand-new mama to their miracle baby, and a new resident of Rome after moving from Washington state.