Why is it that we automatically turn first to our own brains when complex or sensitive
decisions must be made? Why do we so often forget to ask God what advice He has
to give?
I can't trust my brain. The brain I use for making decisions is, coincidentally, the
same one I rely on for making mistakes. My brain was in full use the time I had to choose
which dog to take home from the pound.
My husband, the kids and I took much time narrowing down our choices to two puppies --
a black semi-Labrador and a brown part-shepherd-part-tongue. We stood before the cage that
held both pups, pressing our faces against the bars so that, to the dogs, we looked like
folks from Venus.
"Would you like to take a closer look?'' an astute pound employee asked.
"Could we let both of them out?" I asked. "I need more information on
which to base my decision."
The employee opened the cage door, and out burst the pups, both eager to impress us
with their unique talents and cuteness. The black one ran up and down the corridor, his
tail wagging his entire body.
"What a joy-filled dog!" I commented.
The brown one zeroed in on the most gullible-looking person -- my husband -- and
bounded over to him. As Ralph kneeled down, the dog planted a big, wet tongue on his face.
He ran to our son and tongued him. He ran to our daughter and tongued her. He ran to me
and I ran to the black dog.
So he ran back to Ralph and licked him again.
"What a loving dog," Ralph said.
"I like the black one," I said.
The brown one licked Ralph again. Ralph looked at me with eyes that pleaded like the
dog's. I relented, and I've regretted it ever since. I sit reading the newspaper, relaxing
after a long, busy day, and the next moment I'm reading the dog's nose. I try to get a
little extra sleep on Saturday morning, and the dog's breath forewarns that a wet nose and
wetter tongue are approaching fast. I hug the husband when he comes home from work, and
the dog is squeezing between us to give us both a wet welcome. We can't pet the dog. He
interprets the nearness of our hand as a request for a warm bath.
I trusted my brain. I thought I knew what I was doing when I let that dog lick his way
into our hearts. God bless him, I love him, but I tired of his sloppy affection as soon as
we got that dog home.
The biggest trouble with trusting our brains, I've found, is making decisions that
affect other people. We use our limited ideas about what's right and what's wrong and how
the others fit into it. Why don't we seek God's advice each time? He knows every unseen
particular of the situation in question. So often we wound others or do them injustices
when we make decisions without first consulting God. Not that we intend to. The problem
is, our brains, compared to God's knowledge, are about as intelligent as a couple of
grown-up kids in search of a puppy that will make them feel warm all over.
Maybe a muzzle will help me feel warm and dry.
