A Dog’s Wisdom: How Barkley Helped Me Thunderstand God
A few years ago, I lost my dog, Barkley.
Not the kind of “lost” that ends with relief and a happy reunion.
The kind that splits something inside you — the kind that doesn’t care how strong your faith is or how steady you think you are.
He had been missing for three days when I found him.
On railroad tracks.
There’s no softer way to tell it. I carried him off the rails and sat on the sidewalk, holding the full weight of his still body in my arms. And something in me broke loose.
I didn’t whisper a prayer.
I didn’t choose careful words.
I didn’t try to sound faithful.
I shouted at God.
“I know You can give him back.
So please… give me back my boy.”
In that moment, I wasn’t debating theology. I wasn’t defending belief. I was standing in front of unfathomable power — and asking it to be personal.
God did not bring Barkley back.
And yes, that mattered. It shattered me.
But something else began that day on that sidewalk — something I couldn’t see yet. My understanding of God stopped being abstract. It stopped being tidy. It began becoming something deeper.
Barkley, My Teacher
Barkley was a black-and-white Brittany Spaniel and Blue Heeler mix. Floppy ears. Long tail. A white stripe splitting his mostly black face. Sixty pounds of energy and devotion.
From the start, we shared a bond that needed no explanation.
He loved me completely.
And I loved him the same.
After he died, I replayed our life together — the hikes, the backyard chases, the quiet evenings. But slowly, I began noticing something I had missed while he was alive.
Barkley had been teaching me.
He loved without holding back. No conditions. No calculations. When he loved, he loved all in.
He followed me everywhere — not out of duty, but trust.
He played without self-consciousness. Wholehearted. Unfiltered joy.
And when it was time to rest, he rested fully. No guilt. No second-guessing. Just surrender.
On walks, he would sometimes stop in front of me — not because he was tired, but because he wanted affection. A pause. A reminder that love doesn’t rush.
He never did anything halfway. Not a chase. Not a greeting. Not even his final rabbit pursuit.
His life carried a quiet wisdom:
Time is precious.
Presence is everything.
Trust is enough.
The Lesson I Didn’t Recognize
Barkley trusted me with his life.
He depended on me for food, shelter, safety, and direction. He followed me into places he didn’t understand — roads, crowds, storms — because he trusted my heart.
He couldn’t comprehend the complexity of my world.
And yet… he wasn’t troubled by that.
He lay at my feet in peace. He waited without anxiety. He rested without fear.
And I loved him completely.
Even when he made messes.
Even when he chased things he shouldn’t.
Even when he didn’t understand my decisions.
My love didn’t waver.
It was only later that the deeper question surfaced:
What if this is closer to how we’re meant to relate to God?
Not needing to understand everything.
Not carrying the weight of managing mystery.
Not demanding explanations for every silence.
But trusting.
Following.
Rejoicing.
Resting.
Thunderstanding
That day on the sidewalk, I acknowledged God’s power fully. I believed He could bring Barkley back.
When the miracle I begged for didn’t come, my faith didn’t vanish. It changed.
It became less about explanation — and more about presence.
There are things about God that cannot be neatly understood. They are too vast. Too powerful.
Maybe some truths aren’t meant to be understood at all.
Maybe they are meant to be Thunderstood.
Thunder doesn’t explain itself.
It doesn’t soften its force.
It doesn’t apologize for its volume.
It simply announces presence.
And perhaps faith was never meant to be anxious in the face of that power. Perhaps it was meant to look more like Barkley — trusting what he could not comprehend, rejoicing without overthinking, resting in love he never doubted.
What Remains
Barkley left this world in the early hours of October 18, 2023.
But love doesn’t disappear when a body does. It changes form. It settles deeper.
Two years later, I see it clearly:
My dog taught me how to stand before God.
Not with perfect theology.
Not with airtight answers.
Not with certainty about every silence.
But with honesty.
With trust.
With joy.
And with a heart willing to stay open — even when the thunder rolls and the miracle I beg for doesn’t come.
Sometimes wisdom arrives on four paws.
And sometimes, it teaches you how to trust the One who holds the leash of the universe — even when you don’t understand where the path is leading.
