Do you remember the sheer joy that washed over you on the last day of school? It was more than an adrenaline rush; it was much deeper—definitely therapeutic. If the phrase “There’s no school tomorrow,” still tickles something in your inner child, then you know what I’m talking about.
I’ve always loved the summer time, but it did present its share of problems. Summer’s no-school delirium was offset by the doldrums of summer’s chores. Each morning before leaving for work, Mom posted a list of chores for the day.
There is a direct benefit to being one of four boys: the chores were divided four ways. On most days, we’d have all our chores checked off by noon, leaving the shank of the day to roam. My parents believed in clear boundaries. For instance, we were allowed to ride our bikes only as far north as Poole’s house and as far south as VanFossen’s.
There was one wonderful exception to that rule: we were allowed to cross four farms over five miles to Derflinger’s Farm to swim in their pond. The Derflingers had a picturesque farm pond complete with its own sandy beach and a diving board. Mr. Derflinger subscribed to the theory that if he provided a great place for the neighborhood kids to play, he’d always know where his own kids were, and it worked to perfection.
During the summer of 62’, one of Derflinger dogs adopted me. Tippy, a loveable black and white Springer Spaniel, decided she liked me better than the Derflingers and began following me home. No matter how sternly I scolded her, she refused to return home. Instead, she would belly craw in the high grass along their driveway, thinking she was invisible. Occasionally she’d trot back into the driveway but keep her tail between her legs—completely aware she was in the wrong but totally unable to stop herself. Whenever I turned on my heals and threatened to chase her back home, she made it impossible. Impossible because she would simply roll over on her back and stick all four feet into the air, her tail still tucked tightly to her underbelly.
That first day, I carried her over half a mile back to the Derflinger farm. But as soon as I turned toward home, she jumped to her feet, tail wagging wildly, and came after me as though I had called her to me. By the time I got home, Tippy would be sitting on the back porch steps. More than once, Dad drove her home in the dusty station wagon only to have her follow me home again the next time I came swimming.
Finally, about mid-summer, Tippy’s dad called my dad and together they decided Tippy was officially my dog. I couldn’t have been more pleased; by that time, she had won my heart. She made it clear she only wanted to be with me. She would “sing” to me in soft whimpers whenever I spoke to her. She didn’t just wag her tail, she wagged her entire body.
Tippy graced us (me) with her presence for seven more years. I grieved like a war widow when she passed away. I can walk you to her unmarked grave beside the apple tree beyond the chicken house. Isn’t it amazing how someone like Tippy can totally captivate your heart?
I wish I were more like Tippy—gentle natured and demure. She reminds me of my Savior. I hope the Lord and you don’t mind if I compare Him to Tippy. I believe God is often misunderstood. Some may assume He is aloof or judgmental. But the Bible describes Him much differently. When His Spirit is present, you’ll know Him by these characteristics—
“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, 23 gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law.” Galatians 5:22-23
Thinking back, that’s how I would describe Tippy. (Although, I admit, she did fail in the self-control department. She broke every law to be with me.)
Knowing Tippy has helped me know God better…and vice versa. If you believe dogs go to heaven, you’ll get no argument from me.
Read Ron’s column, Simple Faith, each Saturday on the Faith Page (page 3) of the Lancaster Eagle Gazette, or visit www.lancastereaglegazette.com.