Fetch and Focus: Learning to Listen to the Right Voice

“Come on, Tucker! Let’s play fetch!” Bud shouted, holding the ball high above his head. His face beamed with excitement, sure that Tucker would follow his every command. Wes met us in the field behind Little Belle’s ballet studio, where we passed time during her class. It was Bud’s first time playing with our dog, and he couldn’t wait to get started.

As the sun dipped lower, casting a golden light over the grass, Bud took off running, eager to get Tucker’s attention and begin their game. The dog’s powerful legs carried him across the field, and when Tucker returned with the ball, he dropped it right at Wes’s feet.

Bud’s face fell. He stared at Tucker, then at Wes, clearly offended. “Hey, Tucker! I threw the ball, not him!” he said, hands on his hips. “Bring it back to me!”

Wes chuckled, bending to give Tucker a pat on the head. “Sorry, Bud,” he said with a smile. “Tucker’s trained to listen to his master. He’s got to know and trust the voice giving him commands.”

Undeterred, Bud tried again, scooping up the ball and calling, “Tucker, come here! Look, I have the ball!” But Tucker simply glanced at him for a second before shifting his gaze back to Wes. It was as if Bud didn’t even exist.

I watched with a mix of amusement and admiration for Bud’s determination. “Why won’t he listen to me?” Bud finally asked, frustration creeping into his voice.

“Well,” I knelt down beside him, “Tucker listens to Wes because he knows him. He knows Wes’s voice and trusts him completely. Even if someone else calls, he’s trained to pay attention only to the one voice he knows will guide him.”

Bud’s brow furrowed in thought. Then he sighed, a little defeated. “I guess Tucker just likes you better,” he muttered to Wes, crossing his arms.

Wes laughed and ruffled Bud’s hair. “It’s not that he likes me better, Little Man. It’s that Tucker’s learned to tune out everything else. When you’re close to someone, you know their voice, even when a lot of other things are calling for your attention.”

That moment got me thinking about how we’re all like Tucker. Life is full of voices—demands, distractions, pressures—all calling out for us to follow, to listen. But just as Tucker recognizes the voice of his master above all else, we’re called to recognize and respond to the one true voice: that of our Heavenly Father, even amidst the noise.

Max Lucado’s book, The Song of the King, mirrors this beautifully. In the story, three knights set out on a quest to win the princess’s hand, but they must navigate a dangerous forest filled with deceitful creatures called Hopenots. Each knight is allowed to bring one companion, and the king promises to guide them by playing a song on his flute.

While other suitors choose strong warriors as companions, the humble tailor selects the king’s son to accompany him. The prince plays a flute identical to the king’s, allowing the tailor to follow the true melody as the Hopenots try to confuse them with false versions of the song. In the end, the tailor’s focus on the prince’s melody keeps him on the right path. 

Just like the tailor, we’re not left to figure it out alone. God has given us His Word and the Holy Spirit to guide us through life’s distractions. The key is tuning in and trusting His voice above all others.

Bud’s still waiting for the day Tucker finally brings him the ball, but maybe, just maybe, he’s learning a little bit about the beauty of knowing—and following—the voice that knows us best.

Blessings Unleashed: Tucker's Journey Home

“What do you mean your friend ‘needs help with a furry friend’? Does she need someone to dogsit for her?”  

“Not exactly.” I tried to sound casual, though my heart was already invested. “A man in her neighborhood has to rehome his dog. It’s urgent—he only has two days to find him somewhere safe.”  

Wes raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry to hear that, but why are you telling me? We’re a no-pet family with a crazy schedule. What could we possibly do?”  

“I know,” I said quickly, sensing his hesitation. “I’ve reached out to everyone—friends, family, even acquaintances. No luck. I wouldn’t even ask if it wasn’t desperate. Could we… maybe foster him? Just for a few days until we find him a home?”  

Wes sighed, shaking his head. “Shannon, you work twelve-hour shifts, and I’m not exactly drowning in free time either. I can’t just drop everything to become a ‘dog dad.’”  

“I get it,” I replied softly. “But they asked if we’d at least meet him. No commitments. Just a look. Please?”  

Wes sighed again, heavier this time. “I should just say ‘no’ right now.”  

“But are you?” I asked, a flicker of hope sneaking into my voice.  

When we arrived, Wes looked determined to say no. But the moment we saw him, everything changed. The small Belgian Malinois cowered behind his owner, wide, frightened eyes peeking out as if bracing for the worst. His coat was dull, his frame painfully thin—just 30 pounds when he should have been twice that.  

The man’s voice wavered as he explained the dog’s story. Rescued from an abusive home, neglect stunted his growth and left unseen scars. Trained as a service dog, he was intelligent and eager to please, but his trauma made him a poor match for his new owner’s anxiety. With no other options, the trainer insisted he be rehomed. 

 

The silence that followed felt heavy. I glanced at Wes, hoping he’d say something. His expression softened, and I knew walking away wasn’t an option. “Alright,” Wes finally said, his voice quiet but steady. “We’ll take him for now and help find him a good home.”  

The man’s relief was palpable as he handed over the leash. On the drive home, the trembling dog curled into the backseat, while Wes and I exchanged bewildered glances. “How did we end up with a dog in our car?” I half-laughed, half-groaned.  

The next day, Wes brought him to work “just this once.” He set up a small bed under his desk, and to everyone’s surprise, the little guy settled in right away. He napped quietly through the day, charming Wes’s coworkers by lunchtime. By the end of the week, he had become the unofficial office mascot.  

In the following weeks, the little dog’s presence became a constant in our lives. The service training left him incredibly obedient—off-leash, he stayed by Wes’s side, calm and steady even during the busiest moments. Wherever we went, he was right there with us, perfectly behaved and content just to be near.

We named him Tucker, inspired by Tuck Everlasting, a story I’ve loved since my days as a librarian. Like the family in the book, destined to remain forever young, Tucker’s stunted growth left him forever small—a perpetual puppy. The name felt like it was made for him, tying his story of resilience to our love for timeless tales.

Fostering was supposed to be temporary, but from the start, Tucker belonged. Before we knew it, the “no-pet” rule dissolved. Tucker had become family.  

We didn’t think we had room in our lives for a dog, but God had other plans. It’s funny how blessings often come disguised as burdens. Tucker showed up when we swore we didn’t have the bandwidth for more. Yet his presence has enriched our lives in ways we couldn’t have imagined.  

Sometimes, life hands us what we thought we didn’t want—things we were certain didn’t fit into our carefully constructed plans. But those surprises often lead to the deepest growth and greatest joy.

What unexpected blessings have found their way into your life? I’d love to hear about the surprises that have changed your heart. Share your story in the comments!  

The Biscotti Replacement Plan

 An Unesxpected Snack

“I think that’s everything. Do you have any questions about the house?”

“No, ma’am. We’re all set,” Wes replied with a smile as our friend, whom we were dog-sitting for, headed out for the weekend.

“Oh, and one last thing. Feel free to help yourself to anything in the kitchen and pantry—except the biscotti. I made that for a friend and need to deliver it when we return.”

"Got it!"

We settled in with the pup, made dinner, and eventually relaxed with a documentary about the collapse of Bernie Madoff's Ponzi scheme. Somehow, a piece of biscotti ended up in the popcorn bowl. (I’ll leave it to you to guess who might have been responsible for that mix-up.)

Here’s how it went down:

Spouse 1: Um… What’s biscotti doing in the popcorn bowl?

Spouse 2: What biscotti?

Spouse 1: The cookie in your bowl. That was the one thing we weren’t supposed to touch. It’s for her friend.

Spouse 2: That’s biscotti??

Spouse 1: Yup- it sure is!

Spouse 2: Oh… I didn’t realize that’s what it was.

Spouse 1: How much have you eaten?

Spouse 2: About half the bag…

We sat in stunned silence, our house-sitting consciences reeling. We never would have intentionally made such a mistake! Wes was the first to recover and promptly snapped into problem-solving mode. “Could we buy some to replace what was eaten?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “It’s homemade. We can’t just fill the bag with store-bought cookies.”

“What if we make some ourselves?” he suggested.

“That could work,” I agreed. “We’d need the exact recipe, though… and I’m not a skilled baker.”

“Leave it to me!” Wes said confidently.

I was doubtful we’d find the right recipe among the numerous cookbooks, but in no time, We unearthed a well-worn, annotated recipe card bound with a rubber band.

“This is it!” Wes declared triumphantly. “We found it!”

My role in the rescue mission involved fetching baking powder and reading the recipe instructions aloud—true to my librarian nature. After that, Wes took over completely. I settled onto the couch with my book and enjoyed the soothing background music he played from the kitchen.

Sweet Success

The following morning, I awoke to the sweet smell of perfectly baked biscotti and a pristine kitchen. Wes replaced what was accidentally eaten and made an extra batch to share!

“Wow!” I exclaimed, “I’m so proud of us!”

My husband looked at me with a mix of disbelief and playful disdain. “Yeah,” he said, “WE worked hard.” We shared a knowing glance before breaking into a fit of laughter.

What a ridiculous thing to say; I didn’t do a thing to resolve our situation. 

A Humbling Reminder

It’s easy to misremember the role I play in the events of my life. Often, I call out to God when I’m in trouble—and there’s nothing wrong with that. God delights in His children turning to Him with their needs, and He encourages us to cast our cares on Him (Psalm 55:22 and 1 Peter 5:7). Yet, I sometimes find it easier to seek Him in times of need than to rest in His presence or remember to thank Him when things are going smoothly.

Even worse is when I call out for help, and after God comes to the rescue, I forget His role and take credit for the outcome myself. It’s so easy to fall into pride, thinking the success was due to my efforts. Despite having good intentions, I sometimes find myself acting like the nine lepers who forgot to thank Jesus after being healed. I pray that as God continues to shape me into the person He intends me to be, I will increasingly reflect the gratitude of the one leper who returned to give thanks.

Our biscotti blunder turned date night shows that I don’t always get it right with the people in my life either. But each misstep and moment of laughter serves as a reminder to stay humble and grateful, acknowledging the efforts of those around me and the many blessings from above.