"I will still bear fruit in old age, and stay fresh and green, proclaiming, 'The LORD is my Rock.'"

May I tell you how God has touched my life?

First there was, "Inky." She was a black, female puppy about 12 weeks old. Someone had chopped off her tail -- not with a scapel, but with a hatchet or pocket knife -- so she had what I called, even at 8 years old, a "raw" stump for a tail. I loved Inky and I think the feeling was mutual. We played together constantly. But one day Inky ran out into the street and was run over by a car. Her screams were pitiful and my heart was shattered. I cried so hard and for so long that the adults said they would never let me have another dog.

They didn't. The next time I had a dog for a pet came after I married.

Inky died in 1944, having lived a few days over three months.

In the summer of 2010, our daughter called us from Washington State where she had been visiting and asked if we would like to have a six-year-old female Maltese dog. At first we said "no." But our daughter was insistent. Next thing I knew, I was sitting in the car at the Atlanta airport at night, watching the silhouettes of my wife, daughter and a tiny, leashed dog trailing them as they returned to the car.

Her name was "Molly," and a few weeks later she came in heat. To offset the cost of bringing Molly from out of state we decided to breed her and sell her puppies.

The night for puppybirth came. Wife and daughter stayed up with Molly through the night to help with delivery. Two little puppies the size of full-grown mice were ushered into this world. We were all excited. Named them Daisy and Violet. In a few weeks of playing with the puppies, they took possession of our hearts. So, the decision was made not to sell either of them. We would keep them both. In the course of this joy, memories of Inky came flooding back. From somewhere in the dark reaches of my brain, a rhetorical remark popped out. It was not meant for anyone's ears, just a verbal expression of what was in my heart. I said, "It would be nice if one of these little guys took a liking to me."

I wasn't aware of it, but God heard those words.

While Violet was a delight to everyone, including me, it was Daisy who decided that I belonged to her. Unlike Inky, who was black as night, Daisy is white, like a billowing white cloud. For twelve years now, she has followed me everywhere, into the kitchen, the bathroom, out to the car and in the car. She sleeps on my pillow every night and sometimes places her head right next to mine. If you took a picture, it would seem I had two heads, one human, the other dog.

And I love it. Molly went to heaven at age 15, and Violet followed her a few months ago. But Daisy still lives -- at my feet as I write this, and in my heart forever. I was not 8 years old when Daisy came into my life. I was 74. I turn 87 this October (2023).

It may be that I first encountered my Savior, my Lord, when I was a child, somewhere around the time Inky came into my life and left. I remember attending revival meetings at Fifth Avenue Baptist church. I remember going forward to receive Christ. I remember being baptized, twice -- when I was a child, growing up.

In some ways, I still think of myself as that child.

But the truth is, that God knew me before I was shaped in my mother's womb; before I was even a thought, or before my parents moved toward each other in the act of love, God had already formed me in his heart, and knew me before I materially existed. It is likely that my parents were surprised when my mother became pregnant with me. My closest sibling is nine years my senior. I doubt my parents were "trying" to have another baby. My dad was forty-six, mother nearing menopause, at forty-three. Well past the accepted age of child-bearing. But God had other plans.

It seemed that neither my walking the aisle, nor my baptisms ever really took. A few months after graduating high-school, I volunteered to be drafted into the military. During my two years of military service, I lost all cognizance with God. I became what is commonly called today, an "atheist."

In 1957, at age 20, God would enter my life again. It is likely that he never left in the first place. I can't tell you now as I write this, at age 87, how deeply this moves me.

I have now consciously served the Lord for 67 years. No more atheism. Not even a hint of agnosticism. Serious departures from what I know is right? Yes! Oh, yes!!! But each time, it is I who comes back. It is I who earnestly seeks the face of God. It is I who feels intensely, the repentance of heart.

The presence of the Holy Spirit is staggering and all-controlling. I cannot sin without an enormous sense of guilt and shame, and hard-core awareness that what I have done is wrong. I do not believe that it is the Holy Spirit who produces the conviction, the guilt and shame. He convicts the world, not those who have been washed in the Blood. But his presence is enough to warrant what Peter must have felt when he said, "Depart from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man."

The wound inflicted by the death of Inky, after so many decades, has healed. It came from God in the form of my little four-legged, fluffy white cloud named Daisy.

Even more than Daisy, God is still with me. He remains at my side and in my heart. I enjoy him at age 87 as much as I enjoyed him decades ago. Nothing has changed since I, with sincerity and authenticity of spirit, invited him to take control of my life.

So now, nearing that time when I shall depart, knowing that I can't live too much longer; a day, a week, a month, a year, surely not more than another twenty years, I shall remain faithful. With God's help, I hope to continue to bear fruit for as long as God gives me breath. I shall stay, no matter my threescore and whatever, I shall stay fresh and green, for The Lord is my Rock!