Unfinished Business

This musing starts with a doggy dinnertime. As a bit of context—this now old-lady dog was twice rescued off the streets—both times starving. The second time was the worst. She was desperately trying to survive while nursing a litter of pups. Fortunately, they were all found in time and every one of them lived. That season is now years in the past.

But the mark of that near-starvation experience is still evident—twice a day, without fail. Feeding time at my house is a veritable celebration! Wherever she is, she comes running the moment she hears the can open. Then the dancing begins. She leaps into the air, spins in circles, her tail wagging furiously, as she heads for the corner where the food bowl will soon land. And then she dives in.

There is never an exception. Never a diminished response. Each meal is greeted as though it were the one that saved her life. Long after the bowl is empty, her tail continues to wag. It never fails. That kind of joy does not fade with time. It lives in her body. It was etched there in the days when food was uncertain and survival was not guaranteed. Rescue changed her—but it also marked her. As I watched her dance, I found myself thinking about the Act II season I have entered.

Not the theatrical kind, but the life kind. The season that follows the end of a full-time career. Today I find myself facing the years when productivity no longer looks like a title or a paycheck, yet within me creativity, insight, and the desire to contribute remain fully alive.

It occurred to me awhile back that Act II comes with the offer of a work assignment—one that many people would prefer to decline. The assignment, opportunity perhaps, is this: to look again into painful life experiences that remain unfinished in our souls and have been stored deep within our bodies. Cell memories that have been undisturbed for years, yet somehow, we sense their lingering presence.

I didn’t like that idea at all when it came to me. Still, I’ve never wanted to suggest something to others that I haven’t personally walked through and proven. And I didn’t doubt that such experiences were resident in me…my guess was there were many. I can easily recall experiences I have raced away from the moment I could break free. But the painful experiences of my own life have already been handled. Managed. Packed away. Why disturb them? Why not let sleeping dogs lie?

Then a familiar promise surfaced—one I have known for decades but had not fully applied to this question: “And we know that all things work together for good to those who love God, to those who are the called according to His purpose.” Romans 8:28 NKJV

That’s why. Those unfinished places had not yet been harvested for the good they could produce. They had been survived, yes. Endured. Outlasted. But not completed. Not worked for good.

I briefly entertained the idea that maybe some experiences could be exempted from this revisiting process. Maybe the excavation cost was simply too high. Surely God would understand if a few chapters were left closed and unfinished. But then another question rose quietly behind that one. Why would I want to leave them unfinished? What if something valuable was still being held hostage there?

I thought about the high price I paid to get through one particularly terrifying season of my life. I remember the prayers. At first, they were small and desperate—just get us through one day without the screaming. Then one week. Then one month. Eventually, something shifted. We all realized the episodes of rage were over. The rubble was there, the destroyed trust, but the rage had departed.

It took time to trust that realization. The new safety felt fragile. Temporary. But it held. I remember many tears of exhaustion and relief. I remember the gratitude I had promised to offer if we were ever set free. I remember the sense of wonder in having made it through. And then I moved on.

I never danced with joy. I never shouted praise at the deliverance. I whispered a thousand quiet thank-yous to God and kept going. That was enough—or so I thought. But now, the work of Acts II stood before me.

Could a return to that season offer anything more than that already settled knowledge that it was finally safe to live again? That was no small gift. But was there more?

Reluctantly, I went back. What surprised me most was not what I remembered—but what I didn’t feel. The memories were vivid. Clear. But there was no accompanying pain. No dread. No tightening. How was that possible? I still stand amazed at this… But, then I saw this experience in the context of a truth I learned years after the rage season had ended.

The understanding that every crisis arrives like a package dropped on our doorstep—uninvited and unexpected. We open it and there it is: the problem. The attack. The situation. Call it what you will. We assume that’s all that’s inside. So we stop digging and face the problem as best we can. But over time, I’ve discovered something surprising. In every one of those boxes are two additional items. Promises. And provision. It’s always a set: the problem, the promises of God that address it, and the Kingdom provision to carry it through. Who knew?

So, what treasure was buried with that painful time? What good did I gain from living through it? One very big thing: love never fails. Light always overcomes darkness. Not always all at once.

Sometimes the light comes like a slow, gentle dawning, and the darkness inches away little by little. Knowing that matters. Light wins when we keep bringing it. That was the promise.

And the provision? The love required for every fight would always be renewed. Replenished. Supplied again and again. The source of that light and love will be forever constant and limitless. I endured that season because God’s provision never ran dry. I proved the truth that love never fails—whether I recognized it at the time or not. I can see now that despite the overwhelming sense of aloneness, I was never on my own. I own these truths now; I base my life on them daily.

So what difference does this make? Well, I am no longer sitting on a buried memory, wondering if it might erupt someday without warning. I am no longer carrying the weight of that season behind me like unfinished business. It appears that the work of Act II promises to take all the unfinished pieces of my life and knit them together into a beautiful tapestry. No struggle or sorrow wasted. Just a story to be shared that may help another’s journey through the darkness.

Yep- now I am dancing—internally—with the realization that my entire life was transformed because I witnessed love prevail against impossible odds in that season. No one said it would. All counsel at the time was to take cover and run from the rage. Yet I was given the grace to endure. And because of that, I hold a priceless truth. Love wins. Light advances. Provision in every form arrives continuously. That truth was always there—but it took Act II to uncover it.

And so, I come back to my dog, spinning with joy at every meal. May I ever leap like that in my heart. May I spin with delight at the knowledge that I too have been rescued. May I greet God’s faithfulness with fresh wonder, even when it comes quietly. I only wish I had a tail to wag.