A dog and the mailman

“Sam, it’s okay.” A phrase I catch myself saying perpetually, smiling to myself.

Sam is twenty-two pounds of unapologetic sensitivity. He’s a scruffy shell wearing a bow tie, with warm eyes and that chin-on-your-knee understanding—innocent curiosity and constant companionship. And he’s afraid all the time. Terrified. Of the broom in the closet under the stairs. Of dish towels. Of foldable drying racks. Of a hanger without a sweater on it. Of the kettle—even, and especially, when it isn’t whistling.

The thing is, I’m afraid all the time too. Of failing. Of letting people down. Of letting myself down. Of getting it wrong. Of my heart forgetting how to create a song—even, and especially, when it isn’t whistling.

I considered getting a dog when I started living alone in Nashville, thinking that the security of a bark could be helpful to have around. Sam barks when there’s a knock at the door, which fundamentally works; whoever’s on the other side might think it’s a tough guy in a protective stance, making sure nobody messes with me. Little do they know, he’s barking and hiding between my legs, trembling as if to notify me that there might be danger on the other side of the door—and I better be prepared to scoop him up in my arms real quick.

He looks up at me, waiting and longing for the “Sam, it’s okay,” and with those three words, I watch the tidal waves in his ocean eyes start to get smaller. I love him so much I can feel my human heart exploding, because all that love can’t possibly fit in a container.

This week, I stood on the paint-peeled steps of my back deck, watching Sam sit tall on the sleeping patches of clover, glancing toward the road. This is where he waits for his new friend, Tracy. And right on time, Tracy turns onto our side street in his postal service truck, reaching for a treat long before he parks near the mailbox.

The thing about Tracy is, he’s been patient. He’s tried to say hi to Sam for almost a year and has never given up in his subtle efforts. At first, Sam would bark and tremble, glued to my side whenever Tracy’s truck came anywhere near us. I’d tell him, “Sam, it’s okay.” Tracy would try to calm him with the offering of a treat, but Sam couldn’t bring himself to get close. So Tracy would just leave the treat in the grass, wave at us, and carry on his way. Sam would inch closer after Tracy had left and reluctantly enjoy the treat, his face looking back at me as if to say, I still don’t trust him yet, but I can’t turn this down.

Eventually, Sam wouldn’t bark as long. And then, he didn’t bark at all—but still wouldn’t get close. Then, after months of Tracy leaving treats, Sam finally walked toward him, planted his paws just a little too far away, and reached his face barely close enough to steal the treat right out of Tracy’s hands. I was in awe.

I thanked Tracy for being so kind, for taking the time to get to know Sam and bring him treats. We talked briefly about his love for rescue animals and how, on the days I’m not home, he still tells Sam hello as he barks through the window. I’m so glad people like Tracy exist in our world.

Watching their friendship from the deck this week really got me. Sam now takes off running to greet Tracy at the mailbox and sits with him while he distributes everyone’s mail into the little compartments. His tail wags the whole time, and he follows the truck nearly to the next street—like he’s telling him he can’t wait to see him tomorrow—then runs back to me, with calm seas in his gentle eyes.

I’m starting to feel the seas calm in my eyes, too.

I think sometimes we just need time—to build trust, to heal. To hear “It’s okay” and not believe it for a while. And then, eventually, to notice ourselves inching toward our faith with reluctance. And then, at some point, gradually, we take off running toward it, like a friend.

I’m not sure if being afraid ever goes away. But I’m starting to think neither does the possibility of courage.

There are Tracys who come across our lives, if we choose to see them.

And they help us believe again.

From one wandering soul to another, I hope you know you’re loved as you are <3