Excessive enthusiasm and mayhem marked my first encounter with Luther—the dog, not the theologian. One cold December morning, my father announced to us boys the much-anticipated arrival. As I came down the front step to meet our new addition, Dad called out to the as-yet unnamed creature. “Come Pup!” Suddenly, a gigantic golden retriever careened around the corner of the house and shifted his rapid vector directly toward me. In that moment, I learned an important lesson, ten-month-old month dogs may have the body of a (nearly) full-grown pooch, but they are like human teenagers … they’re still working on that “coordination thing.” Braking too late, the gangly canine became all airborne legs and fur as we collided and both tumbled to the ground. Our introduction was complete.
In our later Kansas years, Garretson animals tended to acquire the names of great theologians. Luther, of course, was our brash, upstart hunting retriever. Calvin was the homestead tomcat, lord of his domain, and Zwingli tagged along, trying to stay out of trouble—tough for churchyard cats; they tended to live short lives with dramatic endings.
But Luther, oh Luther. He stood out. Had he been sixty pounds smaller, he could have made a fantastic lapdog; his temperament matched the skills required for that role. But he was also a born wanderer, and the broad-lands of Kansas thus suited his roaming nature well. The picture of him is utterly representative, taken in the era before digital do-overs. Everything is a mess … dog, mottled fur, caked in mud from the surrounding fields, seeking attention, the blurry image captured in the moment he turned away from the photographer (my brother, perhaps?). Perfect.
Our prairie golden came to us as a thank-you gift. My father had spent many months helping arrange the adoption of a baby boy, the unplanned child of a niece of someone in our congregation. Prospects for this baby boy were grim, marred by an unmarried, alcoholic young mother, a deadbeat father, and overwhelmed, outmatched grandparents. Mercifully, they all agreed this young boy would fare better in a new home on the Front Range of Colorado. This childless couple, family friends on my mother’s side, beamed with joy when they first met their new son. They knew full well when they buckled him into the car that he faced years of therapy, the results of fetal alcohol syndrome and initial neglect. He was not destined to graduate first in his class. But that little boy knew love, and he showed it back.
It is important to note that Luther was the mess of the litter, not the runt exactly, but the misfit. Too big, too clumsy, wrong-color nose, impossible temperament, not the smartest; he was never destined to be “Best-in-show”. But the family who gave him to us knew that he could bring us a bit of happiness and canine love, despite the imperfections.
What is love? Does our value come from the fact that we are the smartest, best-looking, wealthiest, fastest, most successful, most powerful, most clever of our peers? Do we love our children and family because they are bound to be the best? Is that how God views us? Thank you Lord, for loving me, the “not the smartest, not the best-looking, not the fastest, not the wittiest, not the nicest” person that I am.
It’s hard to beat the shear poetry of the King James Bible in this instance, “Jesus said, Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven.” Matthew 19:14. Jesus wasn’t talking about the top of society. Most often, the greatest love is found in the least of these.
That dumb dog never won a prize, but he showed us the best love he could, and I, no great sentimentalist or devotee of animals, loved that silly dog.
