Did Jesus Find My Lost Dog?
I didn’t want to admit it, but prayer seemed to work
In the summer of 2015, in the wake of a long overdue decision to officially separate from my husband and file for divorce, I drove across the country with my Saint Bernard. The trip was uneventful until I got to Tennessee, where I stayed for the weekend with old friends I’ll call Jenna and Rob. It was here where I lost the dog.
I didn’t personally lose her. Phoebe broke out of a doggie daycare while I sat in an evangelical Christian church outside Nashville, where a rock band played power ballads about “the awesome, almighty father” and hundreds of congregants waved their arms in the air as though reaching out to touch the heavenly spirit. (They’d probably disagree with the “as though” part.) When the service was over, I stepped outside the church and discovered multiple text messages from my husband saying to call him immediately.
“Total disaster,” he said on the phone, nearly breathless. “Phoebe escaped, and they took her collar off. She has no tags. She’s been missing for almost three hours.”
I bolted back inside the church. Jenna and Rob were in the chapel, chatting with some potential partners in a subscription box juice company they wanted to start up.
