Who's Walking Who? What Your Pitbull Teaches About Following God

There is nothing quite as humbling as a 50-pound pitbull who has decided she knows a better route than you do.

One second you're leading a calm, structured walk. The next second you're holding onto a leash attached to 50 pounds of determined muscle that has completely different plans for your afternoon—and possibly your shoulder socket.

And right in the middle of that frustration, God tapped me on the shoulder and said: "Now you know how I feel."

In this episode of Abiding Trails, we're taking the leash outside and asking the honest question every dog owner eventually faces: who's really walking who? Because the way your pitbull pulls against your leadership has everything to do with the way we pull against God's direction.

What we cover in this episode: • The trail moment that made me laugh out loud by myself (and probably look unhinged) • What Proverbs 16:9 reveals about planning your way vs. trusting God's steps • Why pulling against the leash creates exhaustion while heeling creates endurance • The difference between what your dog sees (squirrel!) and what you see (cliff edge!) • Why correction isn't rejection—it's redirection toward safety • Three practical challenges for The Steward who wants to follow God's lead better

Whether you're managing one strong-willed dog or eight, this episode will change how you think about every single walk you take from here on out.

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If this made you laugh while it challenged you, share it with a fellow Steward whose dog is currently winning the leadership battle. You know exactly who that is.

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:01

Hey everyone, welcome back to Abiding Trails. So glad you're here with me today, wherever you're listening from, whether that's your morning commute, a walk with your dog, or maybe you're actually on the trail right now, trying to maintain some dignity while your dog has completely different plans for your route. If you're new here, I'm not a pastor, I'm not a theologian, I'm just a woman who loves Jesus, loves the outdoors, and somehow ended up responsible for eight pit bulls who have collectively decided that my role in this house is purely advisory. They tolerate my leadership attempts, mostly. Our dogs are all in that about 40 to 60 pound range, and if you know bully breeds, you know that's 40 to 60 pounds of dense, low center of gravity muscle with very strong opinions about which direction we should be walking. This week I want to talk about something that happened on a recent walk that stopped me in my tracks, literally. Because God has this way of using the most ordinary, slightly humbling moments to say something profound. And nothing is quite as ordinary or humbling as being outsmarted by a 50-pound dog who has decided she knows better on the route than you do. So grab your coffee, assuming your dog hasn't knocked it over yet, and let's walk this trail together. There's nothing quite as humbling as a 50-pound pit bull that has decided she knows a better route than you do. You think you're the pack leader, you've got your gear, you're feeling confident about this walk, and then for about 30 seconds, you're just a person holding a piece of nylon, getting dragged toward whatever caught her attention. I was out with one of our dogs this week. I won't name names to protect their identity, but she's one of our younger ones. Solid 50 pounds of muscle, and absolutely zero chill when he when she catches an interesting scent. We've been working on heel, working on structure, doing all the right things, and for the first part of the walk, everything's going well. She's checking in, staying with me, being the good dog I know she can be. And then it happens. She catches a scent. You know exactly what I'm talking about. That split second where their nose hits something, their brain flips into a different gear, and suddenly none of your commands seem nearly as interesting as whatever is out there in the brush. One second I'm leading a calm, structured walk, the next second I'm holding on to a leash attached to 50 pounds of determined muscle that has decided we're no longer going this way, we're going that way. And I'm standing there, planting my boots, trying to reset the position for the third time, getting genuinely frustrated that she keeps pulling against the structure we've worked so hard on, and right in the middle of my frustration, I felt God gently tap me on the shoulder and say, Now you know how I feel. I actually laughed out loud on that trail. By myself, probably looked completely unhinged to anyone that may have been watching. But it was one of those moments where God uses something completely ordinary to say something that goes straight to your heart. Because how many times have I pulled against his leading because I caught a scent I wanted to follow? How many times have I been completely convinced I knew better on the route than the one who can see the whole trail? Today we're talking about who's really walking who, on the trail and in our lives. Proverbs 16 9 says this the heart of man plans his way, but the Lord establishes his steps. Now I want you to think about that verse through the lens of a leash for a minute. Your dog has plans, very specific, very committed plans. He smells something interesting, and his heart is fully set on investigating it. He's not being rebellious for the sake of it. He genuinely believes his plan is the right one. But you can see things he can't. You can see the road ahead. You can see the other dog coming around the corner. You can see the drop off he's heading toward because he's only focused on what's right in front of his nose. He's planning his way. You're establishing his steps, and he pulls against you not because he's bad, but because he can only see ten feet in front of him. I think about this every single time I feel the familiar frustration of wanting something specific, moving toward it with complete conviction, and feeling resistance from God's direction. I'm the dog on the leash. I can only see what's right in front of me. I can only smell the thing I want. But God sees the whole trail. Every turn, every drop-off, every danger that hasn't come into view yet. And his correction is not rejection. It's protection from things I can't yet see. Let me give you three specific things that leash training with eight pit bulls has taught me about following God. And I mean this from genuine experience. These aren't theoretical lessons. These came from actual trail moments that humbled me completely. Lesson one. Cooling creates exhaustion. Healing creates endurance. When your dog pulls against the leash, what happens? He chokes himself out. He burns energy, fighting the very thing designed to keep him safe. He gets frustrated, worn out, and no further ahead than when he started. I've done the exact same thing spiritually, fighting God's timing, forcing my own plans, pulling against his direction because I was convinced that my route was better. And every single time I ended up exhausted and no further ahead. But the dog who walks in heel position, close to his leader, trusting the direction, not fighting the guidance, he can go further, last longer, and actually enjoy the trail. Peace comes from the heel position with Christ, staying close enough to follow his lead, but strong enough to handle whatever the trail brings. Lesson 2. He sees the squirrel. I see the drop-off. Your dog pulls toward that interesting smell because he can't see the cliff edge 20 feet ahead. You hold him back not because you're mean, but because you love him enough to see the bigger picture. When God gives us a no, or not yet, or directs our path, it's so easy to feel like we're being restricted. But God's no isn't rejection. It's protection from dangers we can't see yet. He sees the loose rock, the aggressive dog around the corner, the storm rolling in over the ridge that we haven't noticed. Lesson three. Correction isn't rejection, it's redirection. When I give a leash correction, I'm not angry at my dog. I'm not punishing him for being a dog. I'm redirecting him back to the safe path because I care more about his well-being than his momentary happiness. When God corrects our direction, he closes a door, redirects a path, or asks us to wait. It's not punishment. It's love that cares more about where we end up than where we want to go right now. The steward who understands this leads his dog the same way. Not with anger when they pull, not with frustration when they test the structure, but with patient, consistent redirection that says, I see what you can't see, and I love you enough to keep you on the right path. Quick pause here, because this week's new tea is honestly too perfect for this conversation. Managing eight pit bulls between 40 and 60 pounds, all with their own strong opinions about which direction we should be walking. I specifically asked God for patience, and he sent me eight pit bulls. I'm pretty sure that's his sense of humor showing up in my life. So I embroidered it on a shirt because honestly, it needed to be said. I asked God for patience, he sent me a pit bull. It's $30, made right here in my shop for the stewards, the men who take care their faith seriously, love their dogs deeply, and have completely run out of the patience they prayed for by 9 a.m. on a Tuesday. Links in the show notes and at abidingpause.com. Grab one for yourself or send it to that person whose dog is currently winning every single leadership battle. You know exactly who that is. Alright, back to the trail. So let's make this practical because I don't want you to just nod along and then go back to fighting the leash the same way you always have. Here are three specific challenges for you this week. First, use your dog's pulling as a prayer prompt. Next time your dog redirects you off the path, and it will happen, probably today, instead of just getting frustrated, let it be a moment of honest reflection. Ask yourself, where am I currently pulling against God's direction? Where am I convinced I know a better route? Use your dog's stubbornness as a mirror for your own. Second, practice the reset without frustration. In dog training, we reset. We stop, we reestablish, we start again. No drama, no extended frustration, just a calm return to the right direction. God offers us the same thing every single morning. His mercies are new every day. He's always ready to reset with us when we've pulled off course. Third, notice the moments when healing feels natural. There are moments in training when everything clicks, when your dog is walking perfectly beside you, trusting your direction completely, and the whole walk feels effortless. Notice those moments spiritually too. When are you walking in step with God so naturally that the path feels easy? What does that feel like and how do you get back there when you've drifted? Here's what I want to leave you with today, Steward. God didn't give you that strong-willed, scent-driven, completely convinced he knows better dog by accident. Every reset on the trail, every patient correction, every moment you choose consistence consistency over frustration, you're learning what it feels like to be led by perfect love. Your dog needs you to be the steady leader who sees the bigger picture. And you need God to be that same steady leader for you. The steward who understands this doesn't just train better dogs. He becomes a better follower of the God who holds his leash with perfect love and infinite patience, even when he pulls. Especially when he pulls. Keep walking, keep leading, and when you get pulled off course, reset, start again, and trust that the one holding your leash can see the whole trail. Thanks so much for walking this trail with me today. If this encouraged you, share it with a fellow steward who needs to hear it. Our free ebook, Faithful Campanions, a guide for loving and caring for your bully breed, is linked in the show notes. Practical foundation for everything we talked about here. And our newest tea, I asked God for patience, he sent me a pit bull, is $30 at abidingpause.com. Links in the show notes. Until next time, keep abiding, keep following, and trust the one who sees the whole trail. See you on the next one.