It’s 3:15 in the morning, and the new pup is howling.
Fifteen years have passed since last we nurtured a dog little Archie’s age, and we had forgotten this aspect of the acclimation. He has not been as busy as we have, all day and all evening. Mostly, he’s been sitting out some lonely solo time – watching, listening, sniffing.
He is not tired. He’s not sleepy. He’s not in the mood for more solitary confinement. He wants to play and play. With us. Now. And he’s not too shy to say so:
“AGHaghAGaghAGHaghAGHohlWOOOOOOOhoWOOOOaghaghAGH!”
So … 3:15 becomes 3:20 becomes 3:25. My wife and I lay in absolute stillness, lest we in any way encourage this, acknowledge this, prolong this. Archie, though, is entirely capable of indulging his own self-pity – and lengthening our agony indefinitely.
Two weary brains are being racked within an inch of their respective lives. If we give in and go comfort him, he’s got us over that barrel forever. If we play, we won’t sleep. If we let him up on the bed – no, he’s not coming up on the bed. And 3:25 becomes 3:30 …
We will not be outwitted by a dog. We will not be manipulated by an eight-week-old puppy.
But ‘neath one bedspread, one blanket, one sheet, two pillows, and two fans on "high" comes:
“AGHaghAGaghAGHaghAGHohlWOOOOOOOhoWOOOWOOOaghaghAGH!”
Suddenly, an inspiration. And a kind thought for Mr. Andrews.
This week marks 109 years since the Titanic went down – an event that has always fascinated me. Disasters compress so much raw fate, dramatic possibility, and human nature into such a brief, intense moment of time.
For example: one of those who died with the Titanic was Thomas Andrews, the gifted engineer who’d designed her. By all accounts a remarkable man, he seems to have been loved and respected by all who knew him – not only for his near-genius at his profession but for his deeply Christian character. Sadly, though, he made one fatal mistake on the night of the sinking.
His first quick inspection, minutes after the collision with the iceberg, told him Titanic was going down fast. The ship was considered “unsinkable” since it’s 16 lower compartments, designed like an egg carton or an ice cube tray, were built so that four could be filled with water and the ship would remain afloat. Unfortunately, the iceberg tore a gash through five.
Still, in his ensuing hurry to help every person he could into the too-few lifeboats, the kindly Andrews didn’t stop to think of doing the one thing that could have saved a lot more lives.
As it happens, a surefire way to keep a craft of Titanic’s design afloat (perhaps indefinitely) would be to flood all the compartments. Instead of tilting up, up, up, as Titanic did – the waters in each compartment pouring inevitably into the next, relentlessly flooding one after the other –
– the ship would probably have settled evenly … and sunk very slowly (if at all).
Titanic might have floated for days, with plenty of time for rescue ships to take everyone off.
A first-year physics student knows this. Andrews knew it, too. But in the terrible stress of those crowded moments, he couldn’t bring himself to think that the best way to save a sinking ship was to flood her. For all of his brilliant knowledge and rare expertise, at that crucial moment, his imagination failed him.
Wonder if a lot of us are experiencing something like that, these days. Not just the sinking feeling … the sense of things we once thought unsinkable sliding, perhaps, beneath the waves of history. But the growing atmosphere of chaos. The deepening longing for leadership – for brave, good, wise, bold, heroic men and women who will fearlessly engage the relentless cascade of challenges engulfing us. We are looking around with increasing desperation for someone to save the ship.
That someone – the sudden, unlikely hero – probably isn’t coming.
The reality sank in with me this week, when I happened upon a quote from Dwight L. Moody. A former shoe salesman who became – against remarkable odds – the most successful evangelist of the late 1800s, Moody traveled more than a million miles in the years before airplanes, and spoke to an estimated 100 million people in the decades before radio, television, or good sound systems.
Moody had no illusions about his own decidedly ordinary skills as a public speaker, or preacher. Nevertheless, he plunged ahead to accomplish what he could for God’s glory and the benefit of those around him.
"If this world is going to be reached," Moody said, "I am convinced that it must be done by men and women of average talent. After all, there are comparatively few people in this world who have great talents."
What, then, if there are no great heroes coming? What if “saving the ship” depends on people like you and me – speaking up, speaking out, taking up whatever aspect of the rising challenge lies most close at hand?
Curiously enough, just 20 years before the Titanic disaster, Moody found himself on a sinking ship in the middle of the north Atlantic. No radio, no rudder, no way to pump against the storm-tossed waters pouring into the hold. “The darkest hour of my life,” Moody remembered – until he called on his fellow passengers to kneel with him and pray. In desperation, they did.
Gradually, a remarkable calm came upon them. The storm faded. A passing ship saw their plight and managed to tow them to safety.
No great seamanship. No heroic sermon. No desperate gambles. Just prayer – and the mercies of God.
He’s still merciful. Capable of calming the storm on an ocean, in a faltering country – even in a little dog’s anxious heart.
I remembered that the other night, about 3:30 in the morning. A solution so simple – and yet, as with Mr. Andrews, it had evaded me. But only for 20 minutes. Then, a quiet, heartfelt prayer – the weary intercession of an exceedingly average fellow – and by 3:35, sleep had flooded all compartments of mind and heart.
Archie and I were both asleep ... at rest with God, in the land of Nod.
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