The Long Road Home: What My Rescue Dog Taught Me About God's Patient Love

They had just come back from a car trip around the block with my husband. I was sitting on the couch when Akuna came bounding toward me, tail wagging—a rare moment of pure joy from a dog who had known so little of it in recent months. My heart lifted. Finally, I thought. Finally, she's feeling safe. Finally, she's coming to me with happiness instead of fear. Then Noah, my two-year-old boxer, trotted over to greet me too. Just doing what he always did—seeking love, wanting connection. And in an instant, everything changed.

Akuna turned on him with a viciousness that took my breath away. The attack was sudden, brutal, relentless. Noah didn't fight back—but she wouldn't stop until I intervened. I sat there shaking, my heart pounding for both of them. For Noah, who had done nothing wrong. For Akuna, whose reaction was so disproportionate to the moment that I knew—I finally, fully knew—the wounds I couldn't see were deeper than the ones I could. And there would be no instant fix.

That's when the words came to me, quiet and insistent:

"The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit." (Psalm 34:18)

Close. Not fixing instantly. Not waving a magic wand. Just... close. And I needed God close. Because in that moment, I felt like I was drowning.

Akuna's brokenness was not from neglect. She had belonged to someone who loved her deeply—a person who had two boxers and gave them a good life. But six months before I would meet Akuna, her companion boxer died. Animals grieve just like we do. She was grieving. Then the unthinkable happened. Her owner passed away unexpectedly. When police came for a wellness check, they just took Akuna to the shelter. Just like that. One more trauma added to the pile.

The grieving family tried to find her, but the police report wasn't clear about which shelter she was taken to. It took them a week to track her down—a week of her being alone, confused, abandoned again. When they finally found her, they were faced with an impossible situation: heartbroken, traumatized, and unable to keep her. That's when a mutual friend contacted me. Would I be willing to give Akuna a home?

I already had Noah—young and energetic. But when I heard Akuna's story, I knew I needed to help. How could I not? This dog had lost everything. She needed someone to stay. I had no idea what I was signing up for.

When she arrived, she was sick from something she picked up in the shelter and got rapidly worse. I stayed up nights praying she'd make it through. Her body healed, but there was an inner condition that was going to take so much more time and care to reach. Something I couldn't see. Something I couldn't fix with medicine or warm blankets or even love.

As her health improved, she became more fearfully aggressive and Noah received the brunt of her fearful reactions. She would play with Noah willingly most of the time. I would watch them in the yard and think, "Yes. This is working." But then something seemed to click inside her, some invisible trigger I couldn't predict or prevent, and she would attack Noah with a ferocity that terrified me. Noah never fought back. Not once. He would just... take it. Absorb her rage without returning it. And I would stand there, hands shaking, heart racing, wondering if I was strong enough for this.

I didn't think I could keep her. There. I've said it. The thought that haunted me for weeks, that made me feel like a failure every time it crossed my mind. I had to protect Noah. But at the same time, I couldn't bear the thought of adding one more abandonment to Akuna's story. I felt trapped between two kinds of love—the love that protects and the love that stays. And I wasn't sure I had the strength to do either one well. That's when I cried out to God in a way I hadn't in a long time. Raw. Desperate. Honest.

I wanted the instant fix. I live in a world of instant everything, and I wanted that here too. I wanted the two-hour movie version where the broken rescue dog has one tender moment with the patient owner, soft music swells, and roll credits—she's healed. But in the middle of another attack, another setback, I had to face a harder truth: I kept reaching for the quick fix because I didn't want to wait for how long real healing might take. Truthfully, I have such a short memory of God's goodness. Such a quick forgetfulness of all the ways He has shown up, all the times He has provided, all the moments He has carried me. Why do I do that to Him? Why, when something new and uncomfortable arrives, do I act like I'm meeting God for the first time instead of remembering the faithful God I already know?

I was Akuna—not because I couldn't trust good things would stay, but because when discomfort came, I forgot everything I knew about the One holding me. And then it hit me—I'm heartbroken for Akuna when she can't remember she's safe, when she can't trust the consistent love right in front of her. But God must feel the same way watching me. I'm Akuna. And God is so patient with me. So good to me. Even when I have a short memory and act like every new discomfort means He has abandoned me.

And here's what hurt most: In those dark moments, God's goodness felt distant. His ways felt too high, too slow, too painful. I wanted Him to wave a magic wand and make this better. But God wasn't offering me a quick fix. He was offering me Himself.

"The name of the Lord is a strong tower; the righteous run to it and are safe." (Proverbs 18:10)

I ran to that tower. Over and over again. Some days, I practically lived there. Because I was weak, and I knew it. I didn't have the patience. I didn't have the wisdom. I didn't have the strength to keep showing up when every day felt like another setback. I was exhausted. I was scared some days. I wanted to quit. Every part of me screamed for relief—for this to just be EASIER, faster, lighter. But even in those moments where I could barely see through my tears, I was choosing to believe God is good. Not because it felt true right at that time. Not because I could see how this is all going to work out. But because I know His character doesn't change based on my circumstances. I'm white-knuckling this trust some days. And that's okay.

Because here's what I'm learning: I can be willing even when I'm not happy about it. I can want God's best even when I hate the process of getting there. I can love God enough to wait even when everything in me is screaming for relief RIGHT NOW. My grip on God is tightening, not loosening—even when my hands are shaking.

“My [God's] grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness." (2 Corinthians 12:9)

God was my strength in my weakness. He was the one who whispered "stay" when everything in me wanted to run. He was the one who gave me patience I didn't possess on my own. He was doing deep work I couldn't see—in Akuna, yes, but also in me.

We sought professional training help for Akuna. And slowly—so slowly—there was improvement. But even now, over a year later, the healing continues. She's happy now—you can see it in her countenance, in the way she moves through the house, in the moments when she seeks affection instead of shrinking from it. She loves to play with Noah. And then even after a year, just when I think she's turned the corner, she unexpectedly attacks him in the middle of playing. Two steps forward. One step back. Sometimes one step forward, two steps back.

This is real life and it takes a lifetime. Not a movie montage. A lifetime of showing up, day after day, with no guarantee of when—or even if—you'll see the breakthrough you're hoping for. And the work isn't in learning the truth once. The work is in choosing to live it every single day when my feelings are screaming the opposite. Maybe you know what that feels like too.

Noah has taught me more about the character of God than any sermon ever could.

Minutes after an attack—minutes—he's ready to play again. As if nothing ever happened. No grudge. No wariness. No "I'll forgive you, but I won't forget." Just pure, undaunted love that keeps coming back, keeps offering relationship, keeps believing the best is possible.

"As far as the east is from the west, so far has He [God] removed our transgressions from us." (Psalm 103:12)

That's Noah. That's what he does every single time Akuna lashes out at him. He removes it as far as the east is from the west and comes bounding back, ready to love her again.

And watching him, I realized: that's exactly what God does with me. How many times have I lashed out at the very blessings God has placed in my life because something deep inside me forgot—just for a moment—that God has always shown up before? And God? He just keeps coming back. Undaunted. Patient. Near to my brokenheartedness, not with a quick fix, but with His presence that doesn't give up. Maybe you've done this too. Maybe you're exhausted from trying to trust when everything in you wants relief RIGHT NOW. I see you. I understand. Because I'm right there with you.

I wish I could tell Akuna: "You're safe now. You don't have to protect yourself anymore. You can just... be loved." But I cannot reach the broken places inside that still believes danger is everywhere. All I can do is stay. Show up. Be consistent. Love her through the setbacks. And trust that time and patience and relentless love will eventually reach the places my words cannot.

And then it hit me: this is exactly how God must feel about me. He longs for me to understand that I'm safe. That His love is not scarce. That nothing—absolutely nothing—can separate me from it.

"For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord." (Romans 8:38-39)

But He cannot force me to receive it. He can only stay close. Keep showing up. Keep offering grace. Keep loving me through my fears, my short memory that forgets His faithfulness every time something uncomfortable arrives.

The Lord is near to the brokenhearted. Not fixing me instantly, but walking with me through every painful, slow step toward wholeness. And He never, ever stops coming back.

Akuna is not "fixed." She may never be completely free of the fear that grips her in unexpected moments. The trauma may be too deep, too layered, too compounded by loss upon loss. But she is healing. She plays now—really plays, with joy I never thought I would see in her. She seeks affection. She has moments of genuine contentment where she lies in the sun and just... rests. The attacks are less frequent. The fear is less constant. And that's enough. That's the miracle I'm learning to celebrate.

Because healing doesn't look like perfection. It looks like progress. It looks like a dog who once couldn't trust anything learning to trust some things. It looks like moments of joy breaking through a season of pain. It looks like God's patient, persistent, undaunted love that says: "I'm not going anywhere. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever."

And I'm not so different from Akuna. I have my own triggers, my own short memory, my own moments when I reach for quick fixes because I don't want to wait. I have my own healing that's taking a lifetime. But God is my strong tower. When I'm weak—and I am weak so often—He is my strength. When I forget His faithfulness, He reminds me. When I want to give up on myself, He never does.

“He [God] heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds." (Psalm 147:3)

Not instantly. But completely. In His time. In His way. And He never stops coming back.

What instant fix are you waiting for? What about God's goodness have you forgotten in the face of your current discomfort?

God is near to your brokenheartedness. Not with a magic wand, but with presence. With patience. With love that keeps coming back, even when you forget. Especially when you forget. Healing takes a lifetime. It takes daily choosing truth over feelings. It takes breathing in and breathing out. It takes remembering when everything in you wants to forget. And He is faithful for every single day of it.

I'm still learning this. Still living it. Still choosing—some days well, some days barely—to trust what I know about God instead of what I feel about my circumstances. Still running to the tower when I'm weak. And I'm inviting you to run there too. Not because we'll get it right every time. But because He's patient enough for the process. Patient enough for our short memories. Patient enough to keep showing up, keep loving us, keep whispering "you're safe" even when we forget.

He never stops coming back.