No Strangers

Sometimes I wonder how many miles I've logged on my beloved walking trail over the last year and a half. Miles that began as steps ... steps with a wounded little wiener dog who needed to walk ... steps that led to drastic changes in my life ... spiritually, physically, emotionally, mentally. Steps that have at times been filled with joy and happiness, while at other times fraught with sadness and sorrow. Steps in the warm sunshine, steps in the pouring rain, steps in the freezing cold, steps and steps and steps ... miles and miles and miles.

It wasn't long after J.R. and I started walking together that I began to meet people along the trail. I've always been of the friendly sort, so I had no problem chatting with and getting to know the various folks I would meet. But no matter how friendly I was to other people and dogs, too, for that matter, J.R. would have no part of my friendliness factor ... no part at all. He would either cower behind me or get as far away from the people or dogs as he could. Even when I picked him up and held him to let a person pet him, he would merely tolerate my attempts at getting him to be more social and was always happy when the other people would move on and it was just me and him again. And I would smile at him as he looked up at me, and we would carry on with our walk. Sometimes I would talk to J.R., sometimes I would sing along to a song playing on my iPod, sometimes I would whistle or hum ... but I always had my head up so that I could acknowledge the folks that we passed.

As I walked last night with Oliver, I was struck with how different my walks are now compared to what they used to be when J.R. was with me. I walk with my head down ... I rarely sing along with the music ... I don't talk to Ollie much ... and I never ever whistle or hum. I would just as soon not have to say hello to anyone along the way, but I've met so many people over the last year and a half that many of them speak to me first so I have no choice but to respond.

I've written a lot about the lessons I've learned through all those trail miles I've logged, and I think God may have been trying to teach me a huge one last night. You see, for as much as J.R. was content to never meet another person or dog, Ollie wants to meet and greet every single person and every single dog we pass. He is the friendliest, most curious little hound I've ever seen. He truly knows no strangers ... instead, he sees everyone as a potential friend who, of course, wants to pet him and receive his generous dog kisses in return. He wags his tail and prances right up to everyone if I don't tighten his leash and force him to stay close to me. And if it's a little kid ... well, suffice it to say that Ollie is in doggie heaven when he's got the full attention of a little kiddo.

So here's the thing ... the lesson ... the giant truth in Ollie coming into my home. When I walk with him, he forces me to look up ... to talk to people ... to smile a bit at his wagging tail and prancing butt. He makes me interact, communicate, and engage with others on the trail. As we crossed the final bridge on our way home, Ollie ran ahead of me, stopped and turned around and looked at me with his crazy tail wagging back and forth. "No strangers, Ollie boy," I said aloud. "You truly know no strangers."

Making me look up and changing my view ... making me talk and open my heart ... making me ... making me into someone new ... leading me down a path I've never walked before. I'm pretty sure that God was on the trail  last night, friends, and there are certainly no strangers to Him.