My Pitbulls Sleep in My Bed (And What God Taught Me About Belonging)
The Confession Everyone Has Opinions About
I'm going to start with the part that makes internet dog trainers lose their minds: I let my pitbulls sleep in my bed.
Obviously, with eight dogs in the house, we're operating a rotation system - this isn't a circus. But whoever is on night duty gets mattress access, and I've defended this choice to more people than I can count. Trainers, well-meaning friends, strangers who feel personally affected by my sleeping arrangements.
Here's what nobody expected: somewhere between defending this simple choice and watching these dogs rest completely, God started saying something profound to me about presence, belonging, and the kind of soul-level rest most of us have forgotten how to access.
The 2 AM Theology Lesson
A few weeks ago, I was having one of those nights. Running Abiding Paws is a blessing, but building a business carries weight. At 2 AM, my brain was running calculations - inventory numbers, upcoming orders, designs that needed digitizing, the endless mental load of entrepreneurship.
The dog on rotation had been completely unconscious at the foot of the bed. Deeply, professionally asleep in that enviable way only dogs and toddlers achieve. Then, without any prompting from me, they got up, walked the length of the mattress, and pressed their full 60-pound weight against my side. One long, contented sigh. Back to sleep.
They didn't solve my business problems. They didn't have answers to my questions. They didn't make the anxiety disappear. They just made sure I knew I wasn't alone in the dark.
Lying there, I thought: This is exactly what God does.
The Presence That Doesn't Fix Everything
Psalm 23 is probably the most memorized passage in Christianity, but I want you to look closely at verse 4: "Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me."
Notice what the comfort isn't. It's not the removal of the valley. The shadow of death is still present. The difficult path is still being walked. God doesn't promise to immediately fix everything or make the hard things stop being hard.
The comfort is presence. You are with me. Four words carrying the entire weight of the promise.
My dog that night gave me a physical representation of what God does in our darkest, most anxious moments. He doesn't always resolve the 2 AM calculations before morning. But He sits in it with us, making sure we know we're not alone.
The Declaration of Sleeping Arrangements
Here's the theological layer I didn't expect to find: when you let something sleep in your bed, you're making an unspoken but clear declaration about belonging. You're saying, "This is my most personal, unguarded space, and you are welcome here."
Not just in the yard during designated hours. Not just on the couch when you're feeling generous. Here. In the place where you're most vulnerable and most yourself.
My dogs know they belong. Not because I give them speeches about it - though I do talk to my dogs extensively and without apology. They know because I've never treated them like guests on probation. They're not visitors who might get asked to leave. They're mine, and that reality is settled.
Ephesians 2:19 says: "So then you are no longer strangers and aliens, but you are fellow citizens with the saints and members of the household of God."
Members of the household. Not visitors. Not people who got lucky and are trying not to overstay their welcome. Members.
I think about the men I design for - strong, capable men who lead and provide and protect. Many of them carry the information of the Gospel while still feeling, somewhere unspoken, like guests in God's house. Like they're allowed in the living room but better not get too comfortable.
God is saying the same thing to them that I demonstrate to my dogs daily: You belong here. This is your home. Stop living like you're just visiting.
Rest That Comes from Settled Belonging
My dogs sleep like animals who know they belong somewhere. Completely, deeply, without holding any part of themselves in reserve in case things change. They don't sleep like guests who might get evicted. They sleep like they're home.
Matthew 11:28-29: "Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls."
Rest for your souls. Not just your body after a long day. Rest for the part of you that's always calculating, always performing, always holding yourself slightly apart in case belonging turns out to be conditional.
That kind of rest only comes from settled belonging. You cannot rest at soul-level if you're not sure you're staying. Your dog rests the way Jesus is inviting you to rest - not because tomorrow is guaranteed to be easy, but because who they belong to isn't in question.
The Arizona Summer Application
Here in the desert, when it's 100+ degrees and we're all stuck inside waiting for trail season to return, rest becomes even more important. This is the season for patience, for trusting the process, for resting well while we prepare for what's coming.
The men who wear my 1776 Puff Embroidery Hat understand what it means to belong to something bigger than themselves and stand firm in that identity. But do you know how to stand firm in your belonging to Christ?
The Challenge
Tonight, watch your dog sleep. Notice how fully they let their guard down because they trust they're home, loved, and not going anywhere. That's not just cute dog behavior - that's a picture of the faith Jesus is inviting you into.
Stop living like a guest in God's house. You belong here. The bed is big enough. Now get some rest.
Want the full breakdown? This week's Abiding Trails Podcast episode goes deeper into the theology of presence, belonging, and what it means to rest like a man who knows where he stands with God.
[Listen to the Full Episode →]
And if you need a daily reminder of who you are and whose you are, the 1776 Trucker Hat and other pieces at Abiding Paws are designed for men who don't apologize for their strength, their faith, or their dogs.