Toby and the Pillow Storm
“But he was in the stern, asleep on the cushion; and they woke him up and said to him, ‘Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?’ He woke up and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, ‘Peace! Be still!’ Then the wind ceased, and there was a dead calm. He said to them, ‘Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?’”
- Mark 4:38-40 (NRSVUE)
It was about 7:45 a.m. on Sunday morning when I heard footsteps scurrying around on the second floor, followed by faint laughter. In our house, if you’re still in bed past seven, there’s no guarantee you won’t be pounced on by a kid or two at any moment. Sure enough, the sound of stampeding buffalo thundered down the stairs, grew louder, and then the bedroom door burst open.
The kids poured in, chasing each other, and before long they were up on the bed, jumping wildly. Yoon and I knew it was time to get up anyway, so that part wasn’t the issue, but the chaos was a lot to handle this early.
“Guys, calm down, it’s too early,” I managed to say. But they could hear in my voice that I wasn’t angry or even all that serious, so it did nothing.
Pillows began sailing through the air over Yoon’s head, loosely aimed in my direction.
And then I noticed him.
Our dog, Toby, was quietly nestled beside Yoon. Toby loves my wife. He’s lukewarm with me, and usually pays attention to me only when Yoon is away and I look like the lone remaining option for dispensing food. To him, I’m a kibble vending machine when his beloved is out of town.
In this moment, though, Toby laid perfectly still. His body bobbed slightly with the kids’ jumping, his eyes tracked the pillow projectiles, but otherwise he seemed entirely unmoved by the frenzy around him. Hazel let out a shriek while Hudson bent down to say something silly right in Toby’s face. Toby didn’t react. Just a slow lick of the lips.
I was amazed.
The night before, I had read the chapter on silence and solitude in The Ruthless Elimination of Hurry, where John Mark Comer quotes the sixth-century monk John Climacus: “The friend of silence draws near to God.” Comer goes on to argue that noise runs roughshod over our lives, shaping us more than we realize.
Apparently, not Toby.
I don’t want to over-romanticize the spiritual depth of our dog. Toby isn’t worried about raising children in a digital age of comparison and distraction. He’s not concerned with the rage machine of social media, or how faithful Christian friends have been pulled into its endless cycle of outrage. But Toby does know silence, or at least a kind of settled presence. And I have to admit, maybe I could learn something from him.
The ability to remain calm and grounded while the storms of life swirl around us is not just a personality trait. It’s a gift, and more than that, a discipline. We see it in Jesus himself, sleeping in the boat while his disciples panic, convinced the storm is about to end everything. Jesus is not indifferent to the danger, but he isn’t consumed by it.
Toby never stopped the chaos in our bedroom that morning. The pillows still flew, the kids still laughed, and the noise eventually gave way to getting ready for church (late). But his calm presence was a quiet reminder that peace doesn’t have to necessarily come from changing circumstances. Sometimes it comes from learning how to remain present within them.
Reflection: What is one way your pets (or the animals you observe) model a kind of calm, attention, or presence that you tend to lose in the noise of daily life, and what might it look like to receive that as an invitation rather than a novelty?
Prayer: Gracious God, you teach us not only through words, but through the lives of the creatures you have made. Help me notice the ways in which nature models calm attention. Train my heart to be less reactive, less ruled by noise, and more settled in trust, as even the animals rest within your care. Form in me a calm that reflects confidence in you, the Lord of all living things. Amen.
With faith, hope, and love,
Eric Smith