I was sleeping at my daughter’s house, and in the middle of the night I heard footsteps. The clicking nails of dog paws traveled from the front door, through the hall, and into her bedroom. They paused a moment, then made another circle from the front to the back door. I knew it was Alan, a aging standard poodle, and I knew why he was pacing. However, I chose to lay still, warm and comfy under my blanket. The click of steps came into my room, and I squeezed my eyes shut until a wooly head joined mine on the pillow, and dog breath tickled my nose. I sighed and gave in.

I opened the back door and stood shivering as I watched him head out to the yard. I waited while Alan satisfied his need, but instead of coming back inside, he turned his head toward me in invitation and wandered—sniffing the night air—out of the yard. I didn’t know where the light switch was, I knew there were steps and uneven ground. I was in my pajamas, not appropriate outdoor wear. Alan ignored my protests, my uncertainty, and my low commands to return. He had a different plan in mind for me.

My granddaughter woke up, ventured down the steps, and into the yard. She called quietly, and Alan responded. We all went back to bed.

But as I drifted into the free-flow of thinking that often happens on the edge of sleep, I wondered if I ever heard the footsteps of the Holy Spirit and hoped that He would walk right on by. Because I was comfortable where I was and didn’t want to be disturbed. I knew that it was inevitable, that I would have to listen and respond, but I put it off. “Ask someone else.” “I’m in my pajamas.” “Do I really have to?”

Holy Spirit, breathe on me.
May I respond, “Speak, Lord. Your servant is listening.”
May I get up and follow you, even into the dark.