Our hearty congratulations to Bethany Tap, who got married this past weekend! She’s taking the month off to celebrate.
Please welcome today’s guest writer, Cassie Westrate. Cassie graduated from Calvin in 2014 with a double major in writing and international development studies. Contrary to her prideful determination to have an awesome job in her field lined up after graduation, she currently lives in Zeeland, MI with her parents and makes all of your favorite picnic salads by the hundreds of pounds. She spends her spare time hanging out with her co-workers, writing, and looking for other people’s lost dogs.
“Excuse me,” a park ranger says as he pulls his golf cart up alongside our unlit fire. My camping companions and I exchange looks. We’re wondering who dunnit: the unforgiveable deed that was going to get us kicked out. But the park ranger folds his hands over the steering wheel, leans forward, and asks, “Have any of you seen a little brown dog?”
We shake our heads. Heard dogs? Barking? Through the night? Yup, yup, and yup.
Seen any dogs? Nope.
“Well,” the park ranger says. “If you see him, call him Brody. He’ll love you forever.” The park ranger backs up the golf cart, and as he does, I glance at his passenger, an elderly gentleman with hunched shoulders and a drooping head. I wonder if the “he” who will love me forever is the man or the dog.
Great, I think. A little brown dog lost in the woods. Probably getting eaten by a hawk right at this very moment. And the old man? What if the little brown dog is the only one he has who will greet him at the door whenever he comes home?
“Where are you going?” one of my friends asks me.
“To look for the dog.”
And as I stomp through the dirt and poison ivy, I do something that seems a bit perfunctory in a situation like this: I start to pray.
Hey God, if you could send me the dog, that’d be great. I basically hiked all day, and now I’m wearing flip-flops that give me blisters, but I’m willing to walk if you just send me the dog.
So, I walk. And I’m not talking about ten yards, or even a hundred. I walk. And do I see a dog?
Nope.
Come on, God, I think. Just give me this one thing. And it’s not even for me. It’s for the old man. And the dog.
Because I am thinking of those graduation cards I got. Graduation cards boasting Bible verses such as:
“For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you…plans to give you hope and a future.” (Jeremiah 29:11)
and
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight.” (Proverbs 3:5-6)
You see, I am asking God to give me one thing and send me the lost little brown dog because I think he owes me. Because, despite what I believe to be complete trust in God, my future seems to be anything right now but prosperous and hopeful; my path seems to be anything right now but straight.
So, there I am. Flip-flops in the woods. Looking for a dog that, for all I know, could actually be a stuffed animal. Living at my parents’ house. Spending my mornings and afternoons making macaroni salad and strawberry fluff. Trying to avoid all those smug people out there who always asked me, “What on earth are you going to do with a writing major?”
And I finally find myself telling God, “I trusted you.”
And then I ask myself if I really said that.
If I’m asking God to give me at least something, did I really trust him? Or did I just trust him to work things out the way I had planned?
You know…grab that diploma with the easy assurance that I’m starting an interesting job that pays somewhat decently. Flip that tassel knowing that I have a comfortable and convenient place to live. Throw that cap in the air knowing that I can tell people that I have plans. Important plans.
Have I been using God as a vending machine? Do I think that I can spend a little trust, a little bit of time praying or reading the Bible; punch in a code for prosperous post-graduation plans; and clinkclankclunk, I’m #blessed?
Does God work like that?
Something tells me that he didn’t/doesn’t/won’t.
So, I scan the trees one last time, turn around, and head back to the campsite.
“Did you find the dog?” my friend asks me.
Do I look like I found the dog? I think because I know that I look like the polar opposite of finding the dog.
“No,” I say.
“I know you didn’t,” my friend says. And I am thinking, Then why did you ask me? But my friend continues and says, “They found the dog. Drove by a little while ago.”
“That’s good,” I grumble as I climb into the tent. And it is good. I’m irritated, but it’s good. Because I’m genuinely glad that God doesn’t want little brown dogs to get eaten by hawks. And I’m realizing that it’s probably good that the owner found his dog instead of me because I know my luck, and with my luck, I probably would’ve called Brody’s name, and he probably wouldn’t have loved me forever like the park ranger said Brody would, and Brody probably would’ve run further into the woods. And who knows what else is out there besides hawks?
So, here I am. A college graduate with a summer job. A free place to live. No plans, but there’s always potential. Not exactly what I expected or asked for, but at least there aren’t any hawks.
Cassie Westrate (’14) graduated with a double major in writing and international development studies. She currently lives in West Michigan, where she works as a writer, hangs out with her pet bird, and fights crime by night. Just kidding about the crime.
