I am a writer. I am a reader. I write because I love it; and I am qualified, or so my college degree tells me. I am a reader because my parents instilled in me that it’s ok to be bad at math. During my home school days I was given a great amount of time to meditate on whatever book I was reading.

I say all of that to show my love for words. They have the power to bless your enemies and yet crush your neighbors. They are also up for interpretation. I read the best newspaper article I’ve ever read. While it’s topic is a canine, not spiritual, it painted a wonderful image of man’s need for a Savior.

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The Montana Standard article, written by Matt Vincent, is about a dog - The Auditor - named for showing up when you least expected it. A nasty sight of an animal with dread-locked hair and a burnt red nose. He’s lived in the Berkeley Pit, a poisonous, hostile wasteland of a place. For over 16 years The Auditor has paced the toxic vastness like a ghost, only showing up for food from the local copper miners. Unsighted for weeks at a time he abruptly shows up at 7 p.m. for his chow and veterinary recommended aspirin - he is 100 years old in dog time.

No one knows why this phantom of an animal even survives this wicked surface. Vincent, in quality form, says, “Not a single blade of grass, nary a tree, shrub or weed can survive on the acidic crust that dominates this animal’s yard. Reeking of sulfur and acidity, this is the kind of soil that eats men’s boots, let alone the feet of any normal dog.”

In 1995 342 unassuming snow geese landed in an invitingly calm pond in Berkeley Pit - their toxic mistake claimed every fowl heart beat.

Here is where I felt like he was me.

In one of only a few touches by man The Auditor allowed a man to clip the bangs that covered his eyes. I was swiftly reminded of that soft, healing touch of Christ in my life. We live in a wasteland my friends, sharing our soil with filth and demons. Some even fly in, over taken by it’s villainous snares and die without ever knowing the truth of their existence. Boomtown America mines not copper or silver but false-worth and love of things. In back alleys, behind closed doors lies a ghost town; a city built on mud.

The Auditor is not too different from you and I. We would remain hopeless and unfed, destined to pass away without the graceful shears of God clearing our vision. I am thankful that He cut my soul’s bangs. While my shell is matted and gross my vision is spot-free. And yet, we still walk this desolate place in search of viable worship - the only difference is that the geese are still flying. Until they land we have a moment to show them better waters - Living and abundant, fresh and strong.

The Miner feeds us and heals us so let us not walk in the absence of sinful men, but in the presence of landing geese.