My sister and I recently had a conversation about God. She asked: What are your feelings about Him (or Her)? I wasn’t sure.
If we’re talking about the traditional image of God — the white-haired, white-bearded, white-skinned (of course) guy in the sky who sits on his throne in Heaven lording over his creation and biding his time until Judgement Day — I don’t think much of Him.
When I was younger, He was pretty much forced on me, mainly through fear. Yes, that God was definitely a He. “God is good,” the church folk recited, as if by religious programming. Good, but according to the Bibles they carried around like gold, He’s wrathful and vengeful, and He rules with fire and brimstone.
A-ha! No wonder so many so-called Christians seem so angry, cruel, and miserable.
Once I started thinking for myself, I started to have my doubts about Mr. Congeniality. I never went so far as to embrace atheism, but I was pretty certain that the God Grammy and Oscar winners thanked while accepting their flowers was a figment of their imagination. I mean, where was my God-given musical talent? Where were my flowers? My millions? Could God exist if he so clearly plays favorites?
But to answer my sister’s question again, I don’t think much of Him — if there is a Him. Maybe He exists; maybe He doesn’t. Either way, I’m certain of one thing: There’s something out there that’s bigger than all of this; a force of nature that set everything into motion and keeps it moving. I wouldn’t call it “God.” I don’t believe this force plays an active role in our daily lives. It certainly doesn’t give a damn about the Grammys and the Oscars, and I’m pretty sure praying to it is futile.
However, I do believe it exists. I see it every time I look at Chip, my 2-year-old Yorkshire Terrier. I told this to my sister, and she had no idea what I was talking about it. I wasn’t 100 percent sure what I was talking about either. I couldn’t put it into words, so I didn’t answer her. But that didn’t stop me from thinking about it for weeks.
I’ve never witnessed the miracle of birth or the joy of parenthood. I’ve heard it said it’s proof that God exists. Maybe so, though I’ve never had access to that proof firsthand. But after two years of raising Chip with my husband, I am convinced that when I look at the world, everything I see isn’t the product of chance.
Chip gives me so much to marvel at. Every time he hears someone outside the door of our apartment, he barks like he’s about to burst. But when the person on the other side of the front door is my husband or me, he excitedly runs to the front door without making a sound. How does he realize it’s one of us on the other side? I know dogs have a heightened sense of smell, but I don’t always wear the same scent. How does he still always know it’s me to greet me excitedly when I open the door?
I got home from work one day immediately before my husband and Chip returned from their evening walk. My husband told me that as soon as Chip entered the building, he went crazy with excitement. That’s how my husband knew I had just arrived home.
I read somewhere that when you leave a dog at home to go to work, he or she can tell when you are about to come home by how much your scent has faded. That must be why every afternoon on the days I work in the office, like clockwork, Chip parks himself by the front door one hour before I arrive home to wait for me. That’s what my husband says.
Chip doesn’t talk, but I feel like we have deep, meaningful conversations every day. I’m still amazed that my husband was able to house train him without giving him any oral instructions like you would when potty training a toddler.
Whenever I’m cutting a piece of cheese in the kitchen, Chip always, without fail, marches into the kitchen and looks at me as if he’s wondering, “Where’s mine?” Even if he was in the middle of a dead sleep, he shows up. I always wonder, “How did he know?” (He only does this for cheese — nothing else.)
People who grew up with dogs as pets might think I’ve lost my mind; they’re used to routine dog behavior. But Chip is the first dog I’ve ever had, and living with him has been one of the most enlightening experiences of my life.
As much utter adoration as I felt the first time I laid eyes on my godson Isaiah, the feelings I have for Chip are so magical because they were so unexpected. I never thought I could love a dog as much as I love Chip — and I don’t even mind that when I tell him I love him, he doesn’t bark it back.
I’ve lived with him for two years, and I’ve never raised my voice at him. When he’s naughty or obstinate, I’m filled with a patience I never knew I had. He doesn’t always do what I tell him to do; he doesn’t always come when I call. And still, he fills my heart with love.
I’ll skip all the gory details of the separation anxiety that haunted me last August when my husband and I spent two weeks in Bali for his brother’s wedding. We left Chip behind at a doggy resort in Queens. I still play over the departure scene where my husband dropped off Chip in my head — and I wasn’t even there! I spent a lot of roaming data over the course of those two weeks in Bali staring at the dog cam on my phone to make sure Chip was OK. (He was.)
Don’t get me wrong. I have the love of humans in my life — my husband, my family, my friends. But whether we want to admit it or not, the love humans feel for other humans, even the love a parent feels for a child, is transactional. We expect something in return — that the other person is who we want them to be, that the other person behaves a certain way, that the other person loves us in return.
That’s a different kind of love, and it’s not the kind of love I have for Chip. It’s not the kind of love my husband has for Chip. In the most surprising way, the love my husband has for Chip makes me love them both more. Unlike the relationship between a parent and a child, I expect that my relationship with Chip will remain the same as long as we’re together.
Having Chip in my life has awakened feelings in me that I didn’t know were there — a quiet patience and a love that’s truly unconditional. He’s never told me he loves me, but I’m sure my love is not unrequited. It’s a love that’s different from any love I have in my life, because it comes with the certainty that he’ll never do anything to break that bond of love, like cheat on me, or steal from me, or hurt me, or willingly leave me.
He doesn’t care about the Grammys or the Oscars. He has no views on global warming or the vaccines help keep him healthy. He doesn’t care who’s president, and he’ll never vote for the wrong party.
But most of all, loving and caring for Chip has enhanced my love for the people who are close to me. It’s made me more compassionate, more hopeful, and more forgiving. Maybe the higher power I’ve sensed for most of my life really isn’t God—at least not the one that demands we worship him, or the God religion uses to control and oppress others.
Maybe it’s just love—like the pure love a person can have for a dog or any animal that shows quantifiable love in return. It’s not love that’s all about legacy, investment, validation, and not having to grow old alone.
It’s love that expects absolutely nothing in return. I’m convinced it comes from a higher power, or it is that higher power — one that’s not sitting in judgment of my love or of me. It’ll never get me a Grammy or an Oscar or fill my bank account. It won’t get me into Heaven or grant me eternal life. And that’s perfectly fine with me.
This post originally appeared on Medium and is edited and republished with author's permission. Read more of Jeremy Heligar's work on Medium.