February 24, 2026
If you want to know the quickest way to test a pastor’s sanctification, just put him in a kitchen with the “Boxer Bunch Boys” while he’s trying to cook dinner.
Last night, our house wasn’t a home; it was an obstacle course. I’m talking 1,000% underfoot. You couldn’t take a step without navigating a minefield of paws, wiggle-butts, and slobbery toys. We were getting tripped, toes were getting stepped on, and I’m pretty sure I almost went down hard at least twice.
And why? Because ball is life.
They didn’t care that we were walking. They just wanted to play—with us, with each other, with the furniture. It didn’t matter. They were agents of chaos, and we were just living in their world.
But then today, the chaos turned into comedy.
My wife managed to invent a new sport I’m calling “Canine Croquet.” Gus-Gus, our baby boy had his front paw firmly planted on his ball—possessive little guy that he is. Danielle, seizing the opportunity, walked up and just kicked it right out from under him, sending the ball flying and the dog scrambling in a confused, happy panic to give chase.
I stood there watching this creature—who was a tripping hazard twelve hours ago—scramble across the floor with pure, unadulterated joy, and I couldn’t help but laugh.
Today, I am thankful for the goofballs.
I’m thankful for the noise, the mess, and yes, even the tripping hazards. Because in a quiet, rural town, these dogs bring a life and energy to our home that I wouldn’t trade for anything. They remind me not to take myself too seriously. They remind me to play. And they remind me that sometimes, you just need to chase the ball, even if you do have to dodge a few obstacles to get there.