Most Christians want to do the works of Jesus, like healing the sick, casting out demons and raising the dead. I have seen a few miracles over the years, but only once have I been involved in raising the dead. It happened in Louisville when we rented a home with a big backyard.
Carol and I kissed common sense bye-bye when we purchased two dogs. The Golden Labrador was named Casey and the liver and white spotted English Pointer was named Kelly. Both were females and about fifteen months old at the time of this story.
The two dogs loved each other. They dug holes in the yard, chewed on phone cables, barked at squirrels, raced around with tennis balls in their mouths, but they especially loved to puppy fight. Casey weighed seventy-five pounds while Kelly was a forty-pound lightweight, but Kelly was the alpha dog in the twosome. She always won the fights.
Carol and I had a lunchtime appointment on that particular day. I opened the gate to the dog run before we left so the dogs could play in the backyard. They took off running as we drove away.
When we returned and parked in the driveway, a loud wailing could be heard in the backyard. We scrambled out of the truck and raced to see what was the problem. There in the backyard in the dog run, the two dogs were tangled together. Casey’s lower jaw, somehow, caught itself under Kelly’s dog collar, and in the struggle to get free, Kelly had flipped over. This maneuver caused the cloth collar to strangle the smaller Kelly. Her eyes were glazed over and her breathing faint.
I tried to release the collar, but it was too tight. Carol ran to the house for a pair of scissors. She was gone only a few minutes, but by the time she returned and cut the cloth collar, Kelly quit breathing. She died in my arms with her eyes staring off into space.
Carol kneeled down next to me on the ground by Kelly in the backyard. We began praying in tongues with our hands touching the dead dog.
We wept.
“Father, You can’t let our dog die. You gave her to us. You have to raise her up. You can’t let her die. It’s not right. Father, we’re asking You to raise her up from the dead right now,” Carol and I cried.
We prayed over and over in this fashion with tears flowing down our faces for four or five minutes.
Then, Kelly opened her eyes. She wobbled to her feet and walked over to Casey who stood by the house, watching on. They touched noses as if to say, “That was a close one, but everything is okay now.”
Carol and I remained on our knees, praising our Father for His grace and mercy.
Later, Carol asked, “How long would you have continued praying for Kelly?”
“Until Father raised her from the dead,” I said without thinking.
Was it our great faith that brought about this miracle? No, not really. Our words were not filled with mountain-moving faith. We tugged on Abba Father’s heart like a four-year old child, begging a parent for an ice cream cone on a hot summer day. We knew He would eventually give in and do it because He is head over heels in love with us.
Our God is a good Father. (Excerpt from The Hunt for Larry Who)
(Continued in Part 4)
Larry Who 