by Michelle Lonaberger, Guest Columnist
RevMarkCreeech.org
3:40 AM — CRASH.
I came out of a dead sleep, fully convinced someone had just executed a Chuck Norris–style kick through one of the original five-foot bedroom windows in my 1880s farmhouse.
Nope.
Instead, a clothing rack gave up the ghost.
The pole had snapped, slammed into my bedside antique milk-glass lamp, and sent glass and clothes flying everywhere—right toward me. The rack then collapsed onto the dog bed beside my own. (For context: many farmhouses built in the 1880s did not have closets. Hence, the rack.)
I shot out of bed in a panic, certain my sweet 12-year-old Papillon, Joy, had been crushed. I flung clothes and the broken pole off her bed in a frenzy.
She wasn’t there.
I grabbed my phone to use for a flashlight—my lamp now being in a million glittering pieces—and found her casually strolling out from under my bed, looking up at me as if I were the one with the problem.
I scooped her up to check for injuries. Everything on my bed is white, and most of Joy is white, so I figured I’d spot blood immediately if there was any.
There wasn’t.
She was perfectly fine; just startled. After a snuggle, her tail resumed its usual cheerful wag.
I, however, had managed to slice my finger. Because I’m on blood thinners for a clotting disorder, it looked like a crime scene. Blood on the sheets, the clothes, the floor, the furniture; even the wall. CSI would’ve had questions.
So, I carried my little dog to her dog bed in the parlor (she has one in every room—naturally) and relocated her food and water bowls to the kitchen. After securing the bedroom doors to keep a curious Joy from investigating the shattered glass, I settled onto the 1840s sofa for what remained of the night.
Joy went straight back to sleep.
I did not.
With a bandaged finger and adrenaline slowly turning into mental noise, I stared at the mantel. On either side sit wedding photographs of my great-grandparents. On my paternal side, they wore the formal attire of their newly adopted country, though my great-grandmother still crowned herself with the traditional vinok of a Ruthenian bride. On my maternal side, they stood proudly in front of their log cabin, dressed simply in the best they had.
They had weathered hardship I can scarcely imagine.
And there I lay, spiraling over:
What about that big project next week?
What if the old wiring sparks and burns everything down?
What if the plumbing to the pool freezes?
What if this…?
What if that…?
Then came the tight chest. The shallow breathing. The cold sweat. A full-blown panic spiral, fueled by exhaustion and the aftershock of fear.
Meanwhile—Joy slept.
I reached down and gently rubbed her little butterfly head. She cracked one eye, nuzzled my hand, surveyed her kingdom, and promptly returned to sleep.
And that’s when it struck me.
She had just experienced chaos. Noise. Confusion.
But she trusted her caretaker.
She knew she was fed.
Safe.
Loved.
Protected.
So she rested.
And there I was—wide awake—forgetting to do the very same thing with God.
The things I was spiraling over? He already knows them—and their solutions.
The problems I couldn’t fix at 6:23 AM? He was already ahead of them.
The fears I was carrying alone? He never asked me to.
“Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they? Which of you by taking thought can add one cubit unto his stature?” — Matthew 6:26–27
I thought back to so many seasons of uncertainty—major childhood surgery with severe complications, family tragedies, financial strain. In every single one, He provided exactly what was needed for that moment. Through it all, His hand can be seen, working all things for good, just as He promised:
“And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.” — Romans 8:28
If my little dog can rest peacefully because she trusts her caretaker—How much more should I rest in the care of my Heavenly Father?
The lamp is shattered.
The room is a mess.
But my dog is safe.
My heart is steadied.
And God is still very much in control.
Better a busted lamp than a busted dog.
And better still—a shaken night that reminds me from Whom my peace truly comes.
Michelle Lonaberger writes about faith, heritage, and the life lessons learned through more than twenty years of ministry. She lives in an 1880s farmhouse filled with family history and is happily owned by a 12-year-old Papillon named Joy. She is the founder of Joy in the Journey, a devotional space soon to be released, centered on trusting God through every season.
