As with most dogs, when we went for walks the world was one wonderful smell after another: tufts of weed, bushes, trees, etc. Running, however, was serious business for Kate. Once we hit a jogging pace, the greyhound-husky blood took over. Her ears (which she normally held in an asymmetrical half-flop, half-cock) would both fold backward against her head as she pointed her nose forward.
She was calm, zen-like, most of the time and rarely barked, except perhaps to tell me to "throw the dang frisbee, already!" I recall the one time that she bared her teeth in fear or aggression. In Auburn, we had an office off our garage with a large window overlooking the back yard. While my wife was concentrating on her computer screen with her back to me, I slowly crept up to that window from the outside to startle her. Katy was also in the office, and she watched my approach, but the sun was behind me; she could neither see nor smell exactly who was creeping up. That was when this dog, who is usually so friendly toward all strangers and animals, became one of her wolfish ancestors with bared teeth, bristling hair, and deep-throated growls. She prepared to launch herself through the plate glass and into me. In a panic, I shouted, "No, Kate!" Immediately, her pose relaxed, her tongue dropped out in a friendly grin, and her hackles slowly settled. As frightening as that moment was, I was glad to learn that she was more than a happy-go-lucky dog, and that, if necessary, she could defend...ferociously.
This last month with advice from her vet, we tried a few reasonable treatments to reverse or slow the tumor, but it was aggressive and growing rapidly. She had dropped from her healthy 57 lbs. down to 40. On Friday morning, her last day, I pulled on my trail shoes, and we went for a walk through the woods at Point Defiance Park. She sniffed happily, sometimes walking ahead, or following behind. Twice she broke into an easy trot; her collar and tag jangled loosely from her neck. In spite of her obvious and growing discomfort, I was glad she had one last hike. That night in the vet's office, while her people gathered to pet her long nose and smooth her soft ears, she was euthanized, and drifted from our lives.
This afternoon, I thought of Katy again as I looked at Matthew 5:5. Jesus said that the "meek" are blessed and that they will "inherit the earth." Meek is not a great English word for the original Greek adjective, praos. "Meek" usually suggests a mousey weakness, a complete lack of assertiveness. In his dictionary for the New Testament, W.E. Vine wrote, "It must be clearly understood, therefore, that the meekness manifested by the Lord and commended to the believer is the fruit of power."
I once heard that this kind of "meekness" was prized in combat horses. They were calm both outside of and in the midst of battle, but could immediately leap, break into a run, or strike with the hoof when needed. In describing a good soldier, "meek" is not normally the first virtue that comes to mind.
"The meekness manifested by the Lord and commended to the believer is the fruit of power."
One of my preaching mentors said that meekness in the Bible is not being "milk-toast," but it is "knowing when." Meekness knows when to be sad or angry, when to speak and especially when to remain quiet, all this usually for the sake of others. Meekness seems to be a kind of wisdom. Add this to Vine's thought that it is a fruit of power. From where does this power and wisdom come? It seems to come from a sense of trust and faith: You are okay. You are in good hands now and ultimately. Your interests and concerns turn outward to others. It doesn't mean that you are ignorant or unprepared, or that you are a doormat, but that you have a larger sense of priority. You know when to respond with patience or power.
Thank you, Katy. Farewell, my running companion and coach, trail blazer, teacher. I pray that you have inherited the earth with all its glorious smells!
