Rock, Rabbit Trails, and a Love That Never Lets Go

Adapted from a conversation with Larry Hudson.

I often think about those dogs we used to run—trailing, treeing, hunting. It reminds me of our conversations, how they wander all over like those hounds searching for a scent. We’re just finding our way, sniffing something up, jumping it out of the bushes, trying to tree it, same as we did on those old rabbit hunts. That’s how honest conversations go among friends, at least ours.

Another story comes to mind, Larry, me walking down memory lane again. I must’ve been thirteen or fourteen, maybe in the ninth or tenth grade. I had a Redbone coonhound, deep red, about sixty-five pounds, with a white chest. His name was Rock—big, solid, muscular, looked like his name. I’d been training him since he was a pup, trying to make a good coon dog out of him. I had another dog too, a younger Bluetick named Joe. Rock was around two and a half years old; Joe was about a year younger.

Rock had learned to trail and tree pretty well, and little Joe would follow him. Some evenings after school, I’d turn them loose at dark. They’d head into the woods, and I’d sit at home listening for them to tree. Next morning, I’d wake up for school, find them in the yard, and put them back in the pen.

One night, I turned them out as usual. I heard them tree behind the house, somewhere past the woods toward Fuller Road. The only thing I can figure is that someone heard them treeing and walked in there taking Rock off the tree. Next morning, Joe was back, but Rock wasn’t. No one could ever catch Joe but me.

I can’t tell you how many tears I cried over that hound. He was my dog. I used to show him, pose him on the bench—he’d stand perfectly still. I’d hose him down, and he wouldn’t move a muscle, just close his eyes while I washed him. He was a good dog, and I cried many a tear when he was gone.

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But somehow, stories like that always circle back to learning who we truly are.

I was thinking the other day about something I read: we carry our Father’s DNA—God’s DNA. When you consider the intricacies of how we’re made, you can’t help but see that we are His offspring. Even the medical world is still discovering the depth of it—the staggering amount of information contained in just a single strand of DNA, enough to fill entire libraries. Every cell in us bears His signature.

If only we could remember that—when we look at others, when we interact with people who don’t yet realize who they really are. Our only task is to love them, as much as we can, as much as they’ll receive. Sometimes that’s hard, because most folks don’t know what to do with genuine, unconditional love. It’s rare. When they encounter it, they almost don’t trust it.

Even something as simple as telling someone, “You’re loved and forgiven,” can make them hesitate. “I don’t know about that,” they’ll say. But how many times does Jesus have to die for you to believe it? The cross already revealed the ultimate truth—God’s love for us, once and for all.

The hardest part isn’t agreeing with that truth, it’s believing it and experiencing it for ourselves—to actually feel loved, and to live lovingly toward others.

One of the biggest obstacles, I think, is the psychological effect of believing that God punished Jesus in our place. The idea that He had to beat His Son in order to show mercy to us—there’s something deeply twisted in that. It distorts our subconscious image of God. If He would do that to Jesus, what would He do to me? It plants the lie that God has a dark side.

But He doesn’t. He is pure love and light, and in Him there is no darkness at all. The darkness is in our understanding, in the falsehoods we’ve believed. The journey, then, is one of reconciliation—not God reconciling Himself to us, but us reconciling our minds and hearts to who He truly is.

I’ll never forget the words Marsha once gave me, saying she believed God wanted her to tell me: “Go forward. Don’t look back. I have so much in store for you.” That’s been my journey—to let go of old beliefs and keep moving forward into the depths of His love, grace, and fatherhood.

He’s my Daddy, my origin is in Him, and He loves me dearly. And not just me—everyone. It’s one big family.

As I like to say, what’s true of Jesus is true of you, and what’s true of you is true of everyone. That’s how I try to keep my thoughts straight when I read Scripture. Sometimes I’ll come across a passage and think, “I know how I used to read that—but how do I read it now? How do I see it through the lens of a loving Father, through the cross?”

That forgiveness wasn’t something new He decided to give; it was something He revealed. The cross didn’t make it true—it proved what had always been true.

Before time began, He set it up, secured it, sovereignly purposed it. It’s eternal love, already accomplished.

I spent nearly ten years walking down the Calvinist trail—total depravity, limited atonement, irresistible grace, perseverance of the saints. But I never could stomach the idea that a loving Father would create humanity knowing He’d only save some and condemn the rest, just to display His power and wrath. That image of God makes me sick now. It dishonors who He really is.

We wouldn’t tolerate anyone insulting our earthly father—why should we tolerate a theology that insults our heavenly one? To say He created souls just to torment them? That’s not the Father Jesus revealed.

I remember wrestling with it back then, Bible in hand, pacing my study, weeping—“This can’t be who You are.” But you can twist Scripture to fit that grid if you try hard enough, especially Romans 9–11. I used to read it that way until I saw what David Bentley Hart later articulated so well: that Paul’s whole argument there actually debunks the idea of God creating vessels of wrath.

And one thing I’ve learned, even from Lloyd-Jones (a Calvinist himself), is that we’re not saved by our understanding. We act like we are sometimes, trying to nail everything down just right. But Jesus is the Savior—not our theology, not our comprehension—Jesus.

He’s not a potential Savior, waiting for us to believe. He saved us. Like someone who dives into the water to rescue a drowning man—he doesn’t wait for the man to ask or agree; he just saves him. Christ entered our darkness, into the very realm of death and separation, and brought us out. All that’s left for us to do is say “thank you,” and live in the joy of it.

That’s the abundant life—learning to love Him, enjoy Him, and walk with Him day by day.

And yes, I still find myself repenting—not in guilt, but in love. Like when I get frustrated with my wife and realize I didn’t set the best example. But even that’s part of the journey. All marriages, all people, struggle with the same things—trying to communicate, understand, express frustrations and fears without letting it sound like blame or condemnation.

We’re all learning how to love better.