My dog was full of paradoxes. Her middle name was Grace, but she was far from graceful. She was stubborn but sweet, independent but loving, and though she was only about 15 inches tall she had the superiority of a Great Dane and the aggression of a bulldog. Above all, Missy was more than a family dog. She was a friend who consoled, an energetic entertainer, and a playmate who made every game of hide and seek exciting.

She died of a tumor about six months ago, and my dad (who is generally pretty level-headed) shed his share of tears, and then had her cremated. Her ashes were scattered in a local doggy cemetery.

I learned a lot of lessons from my dog, honestly. But one of the greatest things I learned from her stemmed from yet another paradox in her personality.

She loved adventure. On occasion, she would find the courage to escape the yard. More than once, I saw her willingly bear the pain of the electric fence to chase a bird, the whole time anticipating the sweet release that would come after the shock. She saw an opportunity to explore the realms of nature, and she seized it, her little legs taking her wherever her nose led.

Even more than adventure, however, she loved home. She was tired from the day's adventure, and she knew where she could find rest. The only problem she faced was getting back through the electric fence. It didn't seem so easy anymore. Humbly, she sat at the edge of the yard and waited. As time passed and no one saw her, she let out a small bark to draw attention to herself. Slowly, the small barks turned into bigger barks, and soon, tired as she was, she let out cries of pitiful desperation.

I remember walking outside to retrieve her. She sat so poised, so as to maintain some level of dignity. But as soon as I was three feet away her ears lowered and her head cowered submissively. "Oh, Missy," I would say, as I reached down to pick up the pup and bring her safely across the line of defense. Though she knew she had been wrong and that she may face the consequences of her behavior, she also knew that once she was in my arms she was free from the pain. She had her fun, but she was ready to be safe and dependent.

This little dog taught me that freedom always comes with a cost. In my lifetime I've enjoyed a great amount of freedom. For one, I'm in America. And despite the misconception that most people have about home schoolers being socially repressed, I actually had a relatively large amount of free time (most of which I spent collecting things like stickers and rocks -- but that's another topic for another day).

It's hard to recognize your freedom as a gift when you have so much of it. Eventually, it has become part of me. But of course, this is not to say that I've always used my freedom well. I tend to be quite stingy with it, viewing it as something I've earned. When in fact, I inherited it. I could just have easily been born into a situation of abandonment and loss. So what's the deal? What did I do to get all this material freedom?

But then there's another type of freedom. The freedom to live under God's law. Seems like a contradictory statement -- perhaps two contradictory ideas: freedom and law. But the gospel is full of paradoxes (see a theme running through here?), and yet very clear. Jesus came to fulfill the law so that we could be free from the requirements of the law (which is perfection), and live as free people...but still with a love for the law. In the Psalms, David raves about the law and how amazing it is and how much he wants to meditate on it and love it more and more. The Apostle Paul, who had his share of preaching to people confused about this idea, writes,

Live as people who are free, not using your freedom as a cover-up for evil, but living as servants[1] of God.

It's hard for me to grasp the concept of living free as a servant of Christ, having been born in an abundance of material freedom. Maybe that's why some people I've met in places like Honduras seem to take their faith and calling to live as servants of God way more seriously. They see themselves as part of an eternal family of rich inheritance.

I can't count the number of times I'm tempted to think of my freedom as synonymous with laziness or craziness. The thing I need to understand is that it's synonymous with work and rest, work and rest. Resting in the freedom that Christ bought for me, and working as a servant for the building of his kingdom -- because this inheritance of freedom from the law should only produce an envious desire to love the things Jesus loved, and to be consumed with longing for God's life-giving law.