I was only a few minutes into my evening walk when the words fell from my lips: “Lord, please bring me a dog.” What? Where had that prayer come from? Okay, so I’d been half-thinking about getting a dog. I would’ve loved one to walk with me. But I hadn’t prayed for one yet.

I hadn’t committed myself yet, and when you pray for something you’re totally committed. You don’t ask God for something you’re not quite sure you can handle.

Three years earlier I was diagnosed with cerebellar ataxia, a neurological disorder that affects my coordination and balance.

“If you don’t walk–you won’t!” my neurologist warned. “Walking will train your brain to remember how to move your body.” That’s when I started walking every night. I desperately wanted to hold on to my freedom.

A few months later our neighbors’ Labrador had puppies. They offered to give one to my 12-year-old daughter, Marilyn, and me. We couldn’t resist! Lugh instantly became part of our little family and came walking with me too.

Then, five months later, a tornado ripped through our town, destroying our home. The only apartment available was dogfree so our neighbors took Lugh in. We visited him often. They were an active family–much more active than I could ever be–and he loved it there.

We’d planned to take him back once we were settled in a house again. But Lugh grew bigger and my symptoms grew worse. I was exhausted and falling more often. When we finally found a home, we made a tough decision: Lugh would stay with them. There was no way I could manage a big strong dog, or maybe any dog.

But I really missed having a dog around. Marilyn did too. A little dog wasn’t the answer. What if they darted between my feet and tripped me? Forget it! Marilyn and I would have to be content with our two cats. I pushed all thoughts of getting a dog out of my mind. Until that prayer flew out of my mouth!

Back home that night I had a strange urge to check out a local shelter online–something I’d never done before. I’m not a big online person, yet I found myself browsing the site for hours. Athletic Labs, spunky Chihuahuas, stately imperious Poodles. All adoptable. But all either too large or too small.

See? This isn’t meant to be. That prayer was just an accident, I thought, reaching to turn off the computer. Just then, the screen flipped to the next page of pets. That’s when I saw her: Lil’ Dog. The most adorable tri-color corgi with melt-your-heart brown eyes. She was perfect!

I filled out a lengthy application, adding a note about my health, our two cats, our history with Lugh, and our vet’s phone number.

Three days later a volunteer from the shelter brought Lil’ Dog over for a home visit. Right away, she scurried behind the woman’s legs.

“I usually foster and rescue big dogs,” she explained, “but a few weeks ago I got a call to check out a flea market that sold puppies from a ‘puppy mill’–an irresponsible dog breeder. Lil’ Dog was living in a chicken wire cage on the ground in the mud and water. She’s only three but she’s already had a lot of pups.”

The woman said that the puppy mill owner had decided that Lil’ Dog was worn out. He had no use for her anymore. My heart broke. How could someone treat an innocent creature this way? She needed food. Attention. Love.

She needed me.

“She’ll require a lot of social training since she’s spent her whole life in a cage,” her foster mom added. “Oh, and there’s another family interested in her too.” Then she looked at my cane and walker parked in the corner. “Do you really think she’d be a good match for you?”

As if on cue, a bit like that accidental prayer, Lil’ Dog trotted out from behind the woman’s legs. She came up beside me and stuck her head under my hand. I melted.

Suddenly, one of our cats ran in and introduced herself with a hiss! Lil’ Dog whimpered and retreated. Then she seemed to think about it and decided that she had to stand up for herself if she was going to stick around here.

She stepped forward and gave a little growl in return. That seemed to settle things. She looked up at me with her wide eyes as if to get my approval. “I think we’ll all get along just fine,” I said, laughing.

The woman turned serious. “Well, I think you might,” she said. “But it isn’t up to me. The Animal Protection and Education Board makes all final decisions…and, well, they think it’s a red flag that you recently gave up a dog.” Then she snapped a leash onto Lil’ Dog’s collar and headed out the door.

Could she be more negative? I tried to hold back the tears. Lord, I prayed, I’m trusting you to bring Lil’ Dog into my life if that’s what you want. If not, please let her find a good home.

Two days later the shelter called. “Hello,” I said, waiting anxiously for their answer.

“Your application to adopt the corgi has been accepted,” they said. I almost dropped the phone!

That weekend Marilyn and I went to pick up Lil’Dog. But when I clipped on her leash and harness, she lunged right between my legs and I fell on top of her! I floundered on the floor, trying to disentangle dog, harness, leash and cane. Marilyn helped me up.

Lil’ Dog trembled, pulling away from me at the end of the leash, terrified, as if she wanted to run back to her cage. Oh, no! This was a bad idea. How could I have been so foolish to think that God had directed me to adopt a dog?

But something, some inner urge, wouldn’t allow me to give up. “Come here, girl,” I coaxed, holding out my hand. Slowly, she stopped fighting to pull away and came toward me. “That’s right. We can learn to walk together, can’t we? We can help each other. We can’t stay in our cages forever.”

I rubbed her soft multi-colored fur. A name came to me: Lily.

Back home, Marilyn and I played with Lily all afternoon. I’d almost forgotten how much fun a dog was, even a timid one like Lily. I thought it would be good to take her with me on my walk that night, get her socialized. But I grew nervous.

What if I fell on top of her again? What if I scared her? She’d spent so much of her life afraid.

I strapped on her harness and leash–this time she stayed put. Success! Step by step, we made our way out of the house and onto the street. Lily was a natural! It was like somehow she knew about my issues. She didn’t tug or pull, just trotted along steadily.

Sometimes she’d stop short if she saw something unfamiliar. After spending her life in a cage, that meant trash cans, bikes and parked cars (even fire hydrants!). Still, she never jerked the leash or threw me off balance. She just knew.

Over the next few months I learned to trust that Lily wouldn’t let me fall. And Lily learned to trust that I wouldn’t let anything hurt her. Whenever we’d approach something that scared her, I’d look down into her sweet brown eyes and walk us closer to it.

“Don’t worry, Lily,” I’d say. “I’m here.” Little by little, she’d step closer too. Before long she was walking bravely down the block, charming everyone in the neighborhood. We made perfect partners.

Five years later, my condition has grown worse. I need to use my wheelchair more than I’d like. But Lily doesn’t mind a bit. She’s still walking alongside me every night. And I know someone else walks with us too. The One to whom no prayer is accidental, the One in whom we are always free.

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