Winter has brought me a mild anxiety relapse. Yay me.
Anyone who lives with anxiety knows the feeling—your brain get hijacked by an espresso-drinking crazy train. It’s exhausting. But I’ve done this long enough to know when my anxiety relapses, it’s because my mind is no longer present focused, it is problem focused—real, imagined, and the “what-ifs” in between.
Yesterday, while reading my Jesus Calling devotional, I came across a sentence that stopped me in my tracks: “A renewed mind is presence focused.” Something about that line settled me almost immediately, like a knot loosening that I hadn’t realized I was carrying.
It recalled my favorite passage in Romans, where Paul writes that nothing—absolutely nothing—can separate us from the love of God. Not our past, present, or future. Not life or death. Not trouble, bad circumstances, empty bank accounts, or even the problems in our country. If God is for us, who can be against us?
And that’s when I thought of my little blind dog, Molly.
When Molly lost the last of her eyesight, it was far harder on me than it was on her. I hovered constantly, quietly trailing her through the house, afraid she would get hurt. I wanted to control her environment rather than trust her to learn it. I mistook my anxiety for love.
That was about a year ago. Today, Molly—now around 18—is thriving. She rules the humans of this house with the quiet authority that comes from knowing she is deeply loved and will be rescued from any trouble. Around here, she’s more commonly known as Osama bin Molly, a title she’s fully earned.
We eventually learned to let her wander freely, which she loves. Her fierce independence, combined with her tiny size, means she regularly gets herself into pickles. I have an Apple AirTag on her—and yes, I’ve used it to find her inside the house and outside in our fenced yard. That’s how I’ve found her wedged behind couches, stuck behind the toilet, and—by flashlight—discovered she’s accessed places I didn’t know existed.
But she is never afraid. She knows all she has to do is let out a single woof, and I will come running.
Since losing her sight, Molly’s other senses have sharpened. She’s always orienting herself toward my presence, listening for my footsteps, and sniffing for my scent. Her confidence in exploring the world depends on knowing I’m nearby.
When she’s tired from her daily Marco Polo adventures, or suddenly remembers she’s hungry, she finds me without hesitation. She comes straight to me, knowing I’ll pick her up and give her exactly what she needs.
Molly lives a presence-focused life. Nothing can separate her from my love. She’s so thoroughly spoiled that no one else wants to watch her, so I take her everywhere I go.
Life has found its rhythm—Molly is somehow younger, happier than ever. Who knew losing her sight would let her see life with such joy?
If I could learn to live the way Molly does—grounded in presence, unafraid of getting stuck, utterly confident that love will find me—I think my anxious brain might finally quiet down.
Until then, I’ll keep practicing… and taking notes from the invincible little dog who already has it figured out.
2 Responses
Miss Molly also knows that if she gets a little too far her friends and neighbors usually come running to her rescue along with her mommy and daddy.
Truth! God has had the best folks around. Especially across the street! Love you, Kate!