March 28, 2026 

The morning light had only just begun to stretch itself across the yard when Bentley took his post. He did not wander into it casually. He arrived with intention. There was a rhythm to his waiting, a quiet urgency in the way he positioned himself just a few feet away, eyes fixed, body slightly lowered, muscles primed but restrained. His entire frame carried a singular focus, as though nothing else in the world existed outside the possibility of what might happen next. The toy rested nearby, but it was not the object that held his attention.

It was me.

Every morning, without fail, this small ritual unfolded between us. A game of fetch, simple in its design yet layered with something deeper than routine. There was a bond being formed in the repetition, a trust built not in grand gestures, but in consistency. Bentley did not question whether I would throw the toy. He did not doubt whether I would engage. He simply showed up, fully present, fully expectant, fully trusting.

On this particular morning, something shifted.

As I lifted my arm to throw, I noticed how intently he studied the movement. His eyes followed even the slightest change in direction, his body leaning before the motion was complete, as though he wanted to anticipate the throw before it ever left my hand. There was no hesitation in him. No second-guessing. No calculation of risk. Only a deep, unwavering trust that whatever came next was part of a shared experience he could rely on. And then, as quietly as a whisper yet as weighty as truth often arrives, a question settled into my spirit.

Why don’t you trust Me like that?

It did not come with accusation. It came with clarity. I paused, the moment stretching longer than usual, the toy still in my hand. Bentley did not grow impatient. He did not lose focus. He simply remained ready, anchored in expectation. And I found myself standing there, confronted not by complexity, but by simplicity.

Could it really be that simple?

In recent days, there had been a quiet unrest within me. Not loud enough to disrupt the surface, but persistent enough to erode the deeper places. A weariness had begun to take hold, the kind that comes not from doing too much, but from wondering too often. Questions about timing. About direction. About outcomes that had not yet revealed themselves. The slow drift away from patient trust into subtle striving. And yet, here in this ordinary moment, a small, faithful companion was living out something I had complicated. Bentley’s joy was not found in controlling the throw. It was found in responding to it. His delight was not in predicting the outcome, but in participating in the relationship. Each time he chased after that toy, there was no burden in the act. Only anticipation. Only movement.

Only trust.

The Scriptures have long spoken of this kind of waiting, though I had often read them through a lens of stillness rather than expectancy. “But those who wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint.” — Isaiah 40:31 “Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage; wait for the Lord!” — Psalm 27:14. The language of waiting, when traced back to its roots, does not describe passive delay. It speaks of something far more alive. The Greek expression carries the sense of anticipation, of leaning forward into what is coming. The Hebrew paints a picture of tension held with hope, like a cord pulled tight, ready to release. Waiting, in its truest form, is not inactivity.

It is engaged trust.

Bentley understood this without ever needing to define it.He waited, but not idly. He waited with readiness. With belief. With a kind of joy that assumed participation was inevitable. And perhaps that is where I had drifted. Not in my belief, but in my posture. Somewhere along the way, waiting had become heavy. Anticipation had been replaced with analysis. Trust had quietly given way to trying to understand every outcome before it arrived. But the invitation was still there. Not to abandon responsibility. Not to disengage from purpose. But to return to a posture of trust that allowed room for movement. To rediscover the joy of responding to the Master rather than attempting to predict Him.

In that moment, I finally released the toy.

Bentley sprang forward with unrestrained energy, chasing after it with a kind of joy that needed no explanation. And when he returned, there was no sense of completion in him, as though the game had ended. There was only the eagerness to begin again. To place the toy back in my hand and step once more into that space of anticipation. There is something deeply revealing about that exchange. The return is not the end. It is the continuation of relationship. And somewhere within that rhythm, a poem began to take shape.

Playing Fetch With Our Souls

In the sun’s warm embrace, a tale unfolds,

A metaphor of trust, as it’s gently told.

A loyal companion, a dog so true,

Teaching lessons profound, to me and to you.

With eyes bright and eager, the pup awaits,

His heart dances, filled with joyful traits.

A game of fetch, his Master’s delight,

He yearns for connection, to share in the light.

Like the dog and the ball, we too engage,

In a dance of devotion, on life’s grand stage.

Our souls long to please, to bring forth delight,

In God’s loving presence, our spirits take flight.

With each act of faith, as we seek His grace,

Our anticipation mirrors the pup’s eager chase.

We run with conviction, leaving doubts behind,

Trusting in God’s love, a treasure we find.

In the leap and the catch, pure bliss is found,

The dog’s sheer elation, a joy so profound.

Likewise, when we please God, our spirits align,

A symphony of purpose, a harmony divine.

Just as the ball is surrendered with glee,

We release our desires, surrendering free.

We trust in His plan, as it’s gently unfurled,

Knowing His ways are the best for our world.

So let us be like that loyal, playful hound,

Delighting in moments when God’s love is found.

In the anticipation, in the dance we engage,

May we please our Master, with love as our wage.

For in pleasing our God, a bond is built strong,

A connection eternal, forever we belong.

With hearts full of trust, in His love we reside,

Playing fetch with our souls, in His presence we glide.

~ Rob Carroll

Later, I found my thoughts drifting to a moment captured in Chariots of Fire. When asked why he ran with such devotion, Eric Liddell responded with a simplicity that feels strikingly familiar: “Because when I run, I feel His pleasure.” That is what Bentley seems to understand without words. His joy is not in the outcome of the game, but in the relationship within it. He runs, returns, and waits again, not out of obligation, but out of delight. There is something within him that simply wants to please.

Perhaps, that is the quiet invitation extended to each of us.

To return to the simplicity of trust. To rediscover the anticipation that comes not from controlling outcomes, but from knowing the One who holds them. To engage in the rhythm of obedience not as duty, but as relationship. To move when prompted, to wait when called, and to trust that every motion is part of something being formed within us. Because the truth is, there is a kind of strength that only comes from this kind of waiting. A renewal that does not arrive through striving, but through surrender. A clarity that emerges not when we figure everything out, but when we lean fully into the One who already has.

So, the question remains, not as pressure, but as invitation.

What would it look like to trust like that? Not perfectly. Not all at once. But moment by moment, returning again and again, placing what we carry back into His hands, and stepping into that space of anticipation where trust becomes movement. The yard grows quiet when the game ends, but something lingers. Not the echo of footsteps or the arc of the throw, but the imprint of relationship. The reminder that trust, when lived out in its simplest form, is not complicated. It is practiced. It is returned to. It is chosen again. And perhaps today, in whatever circumstance you find yourself, there is an opportunity waiting just beneath the surface. To pause. To place it back in His hands. To trust the next movement. And when it comes…

To run toward it.

-Rob Carroll