Peace, Puddles, and a Very Dirty Dog

There’s something sacred about spring rain.

Not the flash storms or the icy drizzle of late winter, but the soft, steady kind that falls like a benediction—quiet, cleansing, persistent. The kind that turns the sidewalks into mirrors and the earth into a sponge. The kind that whispers, “Slow down.”

And so I do.

Or at least, I try.
Because one of my favourite things to do is walk my dog. She, however, has other ideas about “slowing down.”

If you've met her, you know.
She’s a vision—I call her a bull in a china shop. There is nothing graceful about her except her fluffy white and grey fur. People often remark about how amazingly white her fur is—until it rains. Or, more accurately, after it rains. Because then, her favourite pastime is transforming into a high-speed bull charging her way through the bushes. 

After a gentle spring shower yesterday, I thought: Now it’s safe.
The sun peeked out. The ground looked... well, not dry, but dry-ish. I clipped on her leash with cautious optimism.

Lent, they say, is a season of returning. Of turning back to what matters. Of allowing grace to soak in like rain on dry ground.

What I forgot is that grace can also come charging through the underbrush at full speed, tongue out, paws flying, and zero intention of staying on the path. For my dog, the path is merely a suggestion—and an uninteresting one at that.

She leapt through the bushes like a muddy gazelle. She joyfully ignored my polite (then increasingly frantic) requests to maybe, please, avoid the mud. 

By the time we got home, my formerly white and grey dog was a rich shade of brown.
She looked like she'd bathed in hot chocolate.
And there I stood, watching this glorious, muddy mess of a dog spin in delighted circles And honestly? It felt holy.

Because Lent, like rain, doesn’t rush.
It soaks.
It softens.
It makes a mess sometimes—muddy shoes, soggy plans, dirt all over the floor. But it's also what makes everything grow.

Including patience.

Including the ability to laugh when your floors start to look like a bog.

So if you’re feeling weary this season, take it from me—and my dog:
Let the rain fall.
Let it mess things up a little.
Let it remind you that transformation is happening beneath the surface.
Even if the surface currently smells like wet fur.

Resurrection doesn’t come in a rush.
It rises slow—like green through the cracks... or a dog out of a mud puddle.

May this season bring you softness.
May it bring you joy.
And may you feel the rain—holy, healing, and occasionally chaotic—on your face.

Peace and puddles, and a mop,