“What’s your favorite color?” I asked the boy as he ran his hand over the bandana tied to Deion’s neck.
“Orange, I guess. Or yellow.” He answered.
Knowing there was a bright orange bandana among the ones we had at home I replied, “Well, I think Deion has an orange one, he’ll wear it next time we meet.”
“Or I could bring one!” He replied, excitedly. “My mom has a bunch because she has cancer.”
I knew this moment may come when I volunteered Deion, my beloved therapy Dobe, and myself to partner with a child at the Gathering Place camp at Rescue Village, but still my mouth and heart struggled with an appropriate response. In my human-ness, I wanted to say the perfect thing. Something filled with comfort and understanding. Instead I said, “oh.” Brilliant.
“All the kids here have a mom or dad that has cancer, that’s what the camp is all about.” He added matter-of-factly. “Some of their parents are real sick.”
I was amazed at this 7 year-old boy’s frankness and transparency. Cancer was a fact and a way of life. “How’s your mom?” I stupidly spit out. Knowing a bit of the circumstances that we were briefed on prior to the camp but not aware of how he felt or his comfort level on discussing it.
“Oh, she’s doing real good!” He said with a smile on his face. He had bailed me out. We both looked down at Deion and stroked his shiny, black coat. Deion was silent.
I’ve replayed this dialogue over and over in my head. Each time, I think of something more profound I could have said. A better question I could have asked. A sentence I might have uttered that would have made this little boy with a face full of freckles and hope, understand his life as he now knew it, but I said, “oh”. I guess there were worse things I could have said. But as I glance over at Deion today, enjoying the sun warming the boards of our deck, I envy his gift of silence and am given a vivid reminder of Job 2:11-13, paraphrasing: “Now when Job’s three friends heard of all this evil that had come upon him, they each came from his own place....And they sat with him on the ground seven days and seven nights, and no one spoke a word to him, for they saw that his suffering was very great.”
I can picture the scene. Job, crumpled to ground, sitting outside the city gates in shame with his three friends surrounding him, their arms around his shoulders, their faces drawn in pain for their friend, and their mouths shut as Job mourns. The problem is, their mouths didn’t stay shut. Their human nature takes over and their words become daggers and salt. They lay blame and construct possible scenarios to justify God’s plan for Job’s life until Job declares, “As for you, you whitewash with lies; worthless physicians are you all. Oh that you would keep silent, and it would be your wisdom.” (Job 13:4,5). I also ponder the length of time they sat with Job before they spoke, seven days and seven nights. Seven, in Hebrew, is from the root savah, meaning “to be full or satisfied, have enough of”. It is the number of perfection and completion. If they would have been content in their silence at the end of those seven days, their mission would have been completed.
“oh”. Why did I feel the need to talk? I had personally witnessed the change that had occurred in the boy these last few days spent with Deion. The child, who at first, gingerly approached this large, intimidating dog; who flinched away each time Deion made a motion, was now stroking Deion’s neck, brushing his back, teaching him a trick to show his mom and dad on Parent’s Day. He had developed complete trust and his fear had subsided, not by me telling him how great Deion was or by my reassurance of Deion’s gentleness but by Deion just being Deion. No words, just gentle acts of obedience to the boy’s commands and a tenderness to the boy’s touch.
I also watched this boy, with his life consumed by cancer, forget for just a while his worries at home and experience joy and pride in “his” dog, Deion as Deion leaped through rings and effortlessly shot through the tunnels of Rescue Village’s tiny agility course.
Our words so often get in the way of our intentions. I don’t believe Job’s friends intended to make him feel worse. They loved him, they had “made an appointment to show him sympathy and comfort him.” (Job 2:11) But we put such importance on our words. Not that words can’t be a comfort, they can. But knowing when their use is appropriate is tough. At least it is for me. Dogs never have that issue. When we hurt, they curl up around us, they lay their head on our laps, they look up at us with those eyes that seem to say, “it’s okay, you can cry.” And we do. Their closeness and the warmth of those eyes comfort us. They make us feel loved, accepted, and understood. They’ve never said a word. They come, created by God, to comfort silently. And therein lies their wisdom.
