There lives more faith in honest doubt,
believe me, than in half the creeds.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

I’m sneakin into heaven’ with a borrowed halo.

CHRIS RICE

We have a dog by the name of Mojo, which is a Bible name, of course. Named after Moses and Jonah (Moses who stuttered, and Jonah who ran away from home a lot), this Maltese–Shih Tzu lap dog does not appreciate my laptop computer. I was typing away one night when Mojo leaped onto my lap and somehow managed to push Control+Alt+Delete, a sequence that completely shut my computer down. I kid you not. The dog had no sense of remorse whatsoever, just sat there begging to be scratched, unaware that she might have erased the last hour of my life, and possibly some truly deep thoughts.

After Mom and Dad moved in, Mojo became Dads number one fan, following him around their suite, pouncing on his lap whenever he sat down, grinning up at him past crooked teeth. The two sat by the window happily munching bananas, lost in a one-sided conversation.

Dad loved the old saying, “If you can start the day without caffeine, live without complaining, eat the same food every day and be grateful, relax without liquor, and sleep without the aid of drugs, you are probably the family dog.”

“That dog is a blessing,” Dad would say, and not just for the company but for what she was teaching him about doubt and fear.

He had been experiencing his share of both lately.

One night, in the midst of a short conversation, Dad asked, “Do you have any books on doubt?”

His words caught me by surprise. My father? Doubt? Are you kidding? I am young enough to have doubts, but not this rock-solid Christian who has loved and served God for almost seven decades. Preaching when called upon. Telling others the certainty of what Christ has done for him. How many times did he tell me that our faith is a fact, not a feeling? Perhaps there is more of Thomas than Peter in him, after all.

Dad seemed to notice my raised eyebrows, so he voiced the question again: “Do you have any books on doubt?”

“I think so,” I said. “Uh…is it for a research project?”

“It’s for me,” he said, unashamed.

Ever since I can remember, Dad has turned to books for comfort and guidance. Our house was filled with them. They lined the hallways and bedrooms and counters and bathrooms. We weren’t big on artwork, saving our money for bookshelves instead. Winter evenings were spent playing ice hockey and rarely concluded without the benediction of a good book.

Favorite books of my childhood are in my study now, their covers torn, the pages bent. After Dad’s request, I ran my fingers along the shelves. Tom Sawyer. Robinson Crusoe. Arabian Nights. As a child I wished I could add pages to these books; they were always too short. The happy endings were like discovering a quarter in your piece of birthday cake, a bonus to an already breathtaking day.

Is my father wondering if a happy ending can be written into his story? After all, who pens a tale where the hero ends up old, forgetful, and forgotten, reliant on others for everything? For the majority, old age is the most difficult chapter, with Doubt and Fear playing the lead roles. We spend our lives writing our story but one day realize that no one gets out of life alive. That the only way out is the way of trust.

What shall I say to my father?

In Bible college I learned all the standard responses to doubt, but I’ve never encountered it in someone so near. Frederick Buechner calls doubt the “ants in the pants of faith.” It’s like the stinging nettle on our golf course. You go looking for your lost ball, and this pesky plant haunts you for the rest of the round, requiring that you spend more time scratching than slicing golf balls. But sometimes it’s the nettle that assures you you’re alive; that breeds stubborn determination to find answers, to press on.

In my study, I managed to locate two good books on the topic. Dad thanked me for them, but a few days later when the subject arose, he didn’t mention the books. Instead, he gave me a verse he had handwritten on a piece of paper and was carrying in his pocket. A verse from Psalm 23:

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever, (KJV)

One word was underlined: surely.

David did not say, “You know, it is quite likely that goodness and mercy may possibly, perhaps, probably, if I’m really lucky, follow me around for a week or two.”

No, the verse speaks with assurance that God’s goodness will provide, that His mercy will pardon. Forever.

Amid the unnerving changes in his life, Dad needed the promise of a changeless God. With the uncertainty of where he would live, he needed a reminder of his heavenly home. With his memory beginning to fail, he found comfort in meditating on the One “with whom there is never the slightest variation or shadow of inconsistency” (James 1:17, Phillips).

And God didn’t just use that verse. He used the dog, too.

One June evening we were lounging on our covered deck, watching the sky change color in the west. Ragged edges of black appeared over the Rockies, growled a warning, and started their slow march toward us. Mojo was slumped on Grandpa’s lap, but once the clouds rattled with thunder, she began to shake like she had one paw in a light socket.

“It’ll be okay,” Dad whispered, patting her Ewok head reassuringly. But she wouldn’t be comforted. “I’ve got you, don’t worry,” he murmured, massaging her shoulders. But she wouldn’t listen. An irrational fear had gripped her tiny body. She trembled. She shook. She panted. And as the clouds tumbled closer and the rain touched down, she leaped from his lap, darted under a wheelbarrow, and refused to come out.

“Come here, Moje,” Dad beckoned, leaning forward. “Don’t be silly. It’s gonna be okay.”

I couldn’t resist saying something. “So do you think God feels a little like we do right now?” I thought of the bumblebees I kept in jars without lids when I was a child. “Trying to comfort poor dumb, frightened creatures who can’t understand what’s going on? Do you think He’s trying to tell us to trust Him? That’s it’s all right?”

As Dad sat talking to the wheelbarrow, the storm ended and the dog emerged from her hiding place, creeping across the grass and back onto his lap. A smile lit up his face.

I know for a fact that the doubts lingered and the questions remained unanswered. But they seemed to fade into insignificance that night as he massaged Mojo’s shoulders, perhaps thinking of a heavenly Father who holds us in His arms amid life’s storms, whispering, “Don’t be silly, My child. It’s gonna be okay.”