This week our family rabbit, a golden brown Rex, developed a terrible sore on his hind leg. To me the sore looked untreatable, and I resigned myself to an end of the aging animal’s life. My husband, a soft-hearted peach of a guy, wanted to treat the rabbit.
When he learned that the veterinarian would require more than a hundred dollars just to take the rabbit through the door and that the recommendation would probably be euthanasia anyway, my husband decided to rethink his options. We went to Plan C—a trip to the local farm and ranch store where we found medications for the not-so-capable do-it-yourselfer.
Our daughter was the rabbit’s original owner, having carried him home in a brown paper bag almost seven years ago. He came labeled a dwarf—but he wasn’t. He could be box-trained—he didn’t. He was supposed to be compliant—he came with an attitude. Our daughter’s interest in him waned when she discovered that everything that went into his mouth came out the other end and she was left with the task of cleaning up the litter.
When he outgrew his dwarf-sized rabbit cage, the animal was relegated to the an enclosure my husband built for him where the rabbit had lived for the past six years. The relationship was symbiotic—the rabbit entertained visitors with his antics and supplied wonderful fertilizer for my flowers in exchange for his keep.
Now we were home armed with a bottle of antiseptic spray and another of penicillin. The clerk at the store said that using both would heal the bunny, but she could not give us a dosage for legal reasons. My husband went to the internet, found a dosage chart and proceeded to convert the numbers into a dose of injectable penicillin. We figured the cc’s mathematically twice, knowing a mistake would most certainly kill the animal.
I filled the syringe and we both trekked out to the hutch, afraid of what we were about to do. We stood there a moment, knowing that we actually held the rabbit’s life in our hands. I prayed that the medication would help, and not accidentally end the evening in tragedy.
As I handed the syringe to my husband, I wondered how God feels when He considers us in our frailty, knowing He holds our lives in His hands. He created us in His own image (Genesis 1:27). In Genesis 2:7 the Bible tells us that “God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living being.”
In the book of Matthew 10:29-31 the Bible asks, “Are not two sparrows sold for a copper coin?. Yet not one of them falls to the ground apart from the Father’s will. But the very hairs on your head are numbered. Do not fear, therefore, you are of more worth than many sparrows.”
We are important to God, and I’m certain He hurts when we do, just as I hurt for the little rabbit we were about to treat. Nothing escapes the Father’s notice. He loves us very much and wants the best for each of us. Like the rabbit waited for my husband and me to treat his wound, so we need to wait upon the Lord to heal the wounds of our heart. We only have to ask.
And the rabbit? We administered the penicillin and cleaned the wound. My husband made sure the bunny had a fresh carrot and a pear to munch on while he convalesced. I’m happy to report the rabbit has survived, and his energy is returning. Though the wound has a ways to go, I feel confident we did what was best for him, just as my heavenly Father always does what is best for us. What a peaceful way to live.