From the Archive

Ruebon in the Lion's Den

Written by Ruebon Edgerly
Illustrated by Terry Crews

Ruebón, I have just the street for you today," Jim announced one beautiful, brisk Sabbath afternoon. Three Sabbaths out of each month in the mountain community of Mount Shasta, California, Jim organized a group of people to hand-deliver the magazine Signs of the Times to people who enjoyed reading it.

As an enthusiastic 11-year-old, I looked forward to being part of this group. Jim called me a jackrabbit because I ran from house to house.

"This street goes uphill, and the houses are spread out," continued Jim. "There is one thing I need to caution you about. Just before the last house, you will come to a light-blue house. At the end of a long driveway, sitting on the porch, you will see a large white guard dog. Don't mess with the dog! Stand at the entrance and call out to the residents. Someone will come to you. Do you understand?"

I understood clearly. Having been bitten several times before, staying clear of unfamiliar dogs was my motto.

"Sure, Jim," I answered as he slowly pulled the van over to let me out. I got out and sprinted up the road.

As usual, everyone that day enjoyed receiving Signs of the Times. At each home I was met with beaming smiles of appreciation. It seemed these people really believed in reading this magazine.

Nearing the end of my street and coming to the long driveway, I could almost see . . . was it? Sure enough, there was that white guard dog sitting on the front porch.

Wow! That dog is huge,

I thought as I stood at the entrance. "Hello!" I called out. No one came to the door. I moved closer. "Hello; anyone home?"

At that moment, without any forewarning, the dog leaped off the porch and rushed toward me, baring his teeth viciously. There was no time to run. With a mounting fear of being ripped apart, I turned just in time for the dog to strike me in the back. The impact knocked the air from me.

Circling around to face me, the dog continued growling and snarling, not allowing me to move. I was frozen in fear. Not daring to move forward,

I began backing toward the house. Soon I was pinned against a car near the front porch.

As much as I wanted to get out of there and away from this threatening dog, I still wanted to leave the Signs of the Times at the door. Jim had always told me that this magazine was important in sharing the good news about Jesus. I was determined to do that with all my heart. But how was I going to leave a magazine here, much less maneuver around this impossible dog?

Then the thought occurred to me: pray.

Until a year earlier, prayer hadn't been a real part of my life. I had grown up in a family that didn't make speaking to God a priority. But now my parents had experienced the love of Jesus, and they were taking my younger sister and me to church. There we learned about many men and women in the Bible who had prayed–with great results.

Daniel, for example. In fact, my situation reminded me of Daniel in the lions' den. Just me and the lion . . . I mean dog. However, there were big differences between Daniel and me. Daniel prayed three times a day. How often did I pray? Not that often. Daniel was highly esteemed by God.

I was always getting into trouble.

Suddenly I remembered something my friends Jim and Jane had said. At times they would give their testimony of their deliverance from drug abuse. In their need they had recognized that they could not overcome drugs on their own strength. But with serious heart searching they turned to God, and He freed them. They have not touched drugs since. Jim and Jane told me that God loved even me. I could pray to Him anytime, and He would be there.

In my terror I had no other option but to turn to God. "God," I began, "this dog is going to rip me apart. He won't let me leave. Please help me get away; also help me leave a Signs of the Times magazine at the door. Thank You."

As I finished praying, another thought occurred to me: I should slowly raise my hand and let the dog smell it while saying "Good puppy."

"Good puppy?" This dog is ready to eat me for lunch, and I'm supposed to raise my hand and say "Good puppy"? He'll tear into me for sure.

Again the thought came: Slowly raise your hand, let the dog smell you to get to know you, and say, ‘Good puppy.' Everything will be all right.

I began to think that this idea might work. Slowly lifting my hand toward the guard dog, I began to softly say, "Good puppy, it's OK; good puppy, you're all right." To my amazement, the dog slowly relaxed and stretched his neck to sniff my hand. He actually let me pet him! I could see he was enjoying the praise. "Oh, yes!" I continued, as I leaned over to give him a bear hug. "You are a good puppy."

Now that the dog was calm, my chance came to leave the Signs of the Times on the porch. "OK, pup," I said, giving the dog another stroke behind his ear, "how about taking me up on the porch so I can leave this magazine?"

As we headed to the porch, I could hardly believe the change of events. God had answered my prayer right before my eyes. I stuck the magazine in the doorjamb and said a silent prayer of gratitude. I then leaned over, gave the watchdog another big hug, and started up the road to finish my deliveries and meet Jim.

Back in the van, Jim turned to me and inquired, "What took you so long?"

"Well," I began, "you know that white guard dog you warned me about?"