BACK TO CHASING BALLS

Abe McLaughlin

Sydney is the most energetic dog I've ever known. When she's hurtling after her beloved tennis ball, she turns into a little white blur, streaking across the lawn, hardly touching the ground. In fact, this Jack Russell terrier would continue fetching that ball well past midnight—and dawn—if only she could find a human who'd throw it for that long. After tossing the ball a few hundred times for her, a friend of ours began referring to her as "the divine energy of Spirit," borrowing a phrase from Science and Health (p. 249).

But one night not long ago, Sydney was standing in our bedroom, unable to move or sit or lie down. Earlier that day she'd been chasing a ball in a backyard with another dog, a big Rhodesian Ridgeback. During one chase, the Ridgeback had landed on top of Sydney, just as Sydney landed on top of a sprinkler head. She'd squealed in obvious discomfort, and there was a big gash on her underside that she wouldn't let us touch or clean.

My wife and I immediately began to pray about this, because that was how we knew we could help her best. The focus of our prayers was the idea that Sydney's real being was exactly as our friend had seen in her: "the divine energy of Spirit." Spiritual qualities are what she's all about. And nothing could interfere with, or sidetrack, that identity. It was so helpful to us that our friend had given her that spiritual nickname. Often when I'm praying, the prayer is more along the lines of, "This bad condition can't be real." But my prayer that night was just filled with an acknowledgment of Sydney's true being as "the divine energy of Spirit."

We stayed up most of the night praying. The next morning, before heading to church, we decided to take her to the vet—just to see if he could clean or bandage the wound. He put Sydney up on his examination table, lifted her back legs, looked around, and asked, "You said this happened yesterday?" Then he told us he could see evidence of injury, but that it looked as if it had happened weeks ago. "It's totally healed up," he said. "I don't know how that could have happened."

Well, we knew. And we gratefully went off to church, with Sydney in tow. That afternoon, she was back to chasing balls with her usual vigor.

This healing was particularly instructive to me, because it showed how important it is to focus on the spiritual individuality of—and truth about—God's creation. We weren't willing those wounds to go away. We were acknowledging the already-truth about the fact of spiritual existence. These kinds of prayers have immediate consequences in the patient's earthly existence—whether that patient is a person or an animal.

Just ask Sydney. She'd gladly chase a few balls for you just to prove it.

Abe McLaughlin
Boston, Massachusetts

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