Murphy doesn’t understand my world. He just trusts me.

(There is a sermon in that.)

Every night, without fail, our wee Murphy, half Maltese and half Yorkshire Terrier, entirely convinced he owns the place, pads across the bedroom floor, climbs up onto the bed, and curls himself into the crook of my legs. He lets out a small sigh, tucks his nose under his tail, and that’s that. He’s home.

Last night I was thinking about what he doesn’t know when he does that.

He doesn’t know what I’m carrying. He has no idea whether the day was good or brutal, whether the conversation I’m replaying went well or sideways, whether the decision I’m sitting with is straightforward or costly. He doesn’t know my theology, my calendar, my concerns. He’s a small dog with a smart mind and an unshakeable confidence that the person he’s curling up with is safe.

That’s not ignorance. That’s trust.

It’s the kind of trust that doesn’t require complete information before it leans in. Murphy has enough. He knows who I am to him — and that’s sufficient. He doesn’t wait until he understands everything about my world before he closes the distance.

I wonder how different that is from the way many of us approach God.

We want resolution before we’ll fully lean in. We want the diagnosis explained, the relationship repaired, the finances stabilised, the path clarified — and then we’ll settle into trust. We treat understanding as the precondition for proximity. But Murphy doesn’t operate that way. He doesn’t need to understand me. He just needs to be near me.

Which brings me to the second thing Murphy teaches me, almost without trying.

He’s not there to ask for anything. He’s not negotiating a treat or positioning for a walk. He’s not presenting a list of needs. He just — comes. The closeness is the whole point. There’s no agenda tucked under those folded paws. Just presence, freely given and fully enjoyed.

I find this quietly convicting. If I’m honest, much of my prayer life is transactional. I come to God with a fairly well-organised list. Which is not wrong — he invites it. But somewhere in the busyness of bringing requests, I can miss the simpler thing: just drawing close.

Murphy never seems to feel he has to earn his place beside me. He doesn’t arrive tentatively, hoping he’ll be tolerated. He comes with a kind of quiet “I belong here” confidence, and settles in. That confidence isn’t arrogance. It’s just the fruit of a relationship that has been consistent.

That’s what I want my approach to God to look like. Not striving to get his attention. Not performing well enough to deserve the access. Just coming. Trusting that he’s good, that I’m known, that the closeness itself is something he welcomes.

There’s a reason the ancient writers kept returning to the image of shelter — of being held, covered, close. It’s not weakness. It’s wisdom. The creature finding its right place beside the one it belongs to.

So here’s my question for you: When did you last come to God with no list? When did you last just draw close? Not to get something resolved. Not to present your case. Just to be near.

Murphy figured this out without any theology at all. Maybe that’s the point.

“Draw near to God, and he will draw near to you.” — James 4:8