One year, our beloved pet needed surgery. The veterenarian’s instructions were crystal-clear: No activity.

Ah, but not Happy. The split second we opened the sliding glass door at home, Happy dashed out in a blur. As we watched in stunned silence, she made a beeline for the orange tree and leapt into the air. Arrp! she yelped. Down she thudded. Then we blinked—up flew the irrepressible Happy. Arrp! Down. Up. Arrp! Down. And so it went, day after day. The dog was insane. What on earth compels her to keep jumping for that branch? we wondered, laughing. Didn’t she get it? I think the vet overlooked Happy's true problem: she needed a brain transplant.

Then again, maybe something can be learned from a quirky old dog.

I have a standard set for myself, to guide all my conduct—all my words, all my thoughts, all my actions. It’s revealed in God’s Word, and it’s high. There's just one problem. Whenever I open my Bible to read a little more about the holy God I serve, that standard inches higher. And another thing is happening simultaneously. In the light of His holiness, filth that I never even knew was in my heart is placed on display before my startled, shamed eyes.

I long to glorify God. I long to know Him, more intimately than I ever have before. I long to revel in His love continually. I long for my heart to be tender, so that I will fall in submission at His feet in every circumstance. I long for my Maker to reveal Himself to me—for Him to stagger me with Himself. I long for my daily life to be a sweet, pleasing aroma to Him. I long to be wholly, completely devoted to my Savior.

But to be perfectly frank, I often feel exactly like my old dog.

I’m jumping at a branch that’s always becoming more unattainable. Thud. Every day, I yelp and fall down. Again, again, and again I hit the ground. I’ve never even brushed the leaves. I often wonder: Am I making any progress? Am I maturing at all? It’s hard for me to tell. I recently found an old journal of mine, with simple, short entries written in childish scrawls.

God, I’ve already sinned today. I’m sorry. I’m really the worst of all sinners, it seems. Thank You that You always forgive me—even if I am the worst sinner ever.

I want You. I want to thirst for You, and hunger for Your Word.

Those entries were penned at age ten, but I’m still praying the very same things today. I have a feeling that I'll be praying them at sixty. Truth be told: I’m never going to meet God’s standard perfectly while I’m inhaling and exhaling on this earth.

What I want to do, I do not do, and what I do not want to do, I do. I can almost hear the frustration echoing in Paul's voice, can’t you? The agony he expresses is acute; Paul’s struggle with the stubborn sinful nature is one that every believer is painfully familiar with. When you burn with yearning for perfection, every fresh discovery of pride and idolatry can be a nearly debilitating blow of discouragement.

So, what to do? There are but two options before the frustrated, disheartened, jumping Christian.

First, we can tug the branch down to our level. Drop His standard a bit, and we will immediately find—to our pleasant surprise— that discouragement stays safely at bay. We know that we can’t achieve perfection, so why keep on aiming for the impossible? It’s painful, it takes unrelenting hard work, and it’s exhausting. Spiritual complacency, on the other hand, is oh-so-comfortable. Rather than flinging every drop of our energy into the pursuit of God and the pursuit of holiness, we have the option of letting "small" sins slip by unheeded. The option of pretending that God's interest in our spiritual maturity isn't really so strong and unyielding. The option of acceptance. To find relief, we simply need to follow the instructions of the vet, curl up in a ball, and fall fast asleep.

Of course, lowering His standard for our lives does require making some changes. We’ll have to cultivate calluses; our consciences obviously cannot be allowed to prick and grieve us at the slightest sin. Naturally, in order to achieve that feat, we need to stop reading the Word diligently. (Or, if we do keep reading, we absolutely cannot let the words penetrate our hearts and bring conviction.) That part is key. If we’re not gazing at His criterion daily, it won’t be too difficult to imagine that the branch isn’t really quite so high. If we choose this option, truth is our most dangerous enemy, because it will invariably evoke more jumping.

But there is a second way, praise God, and I can sum it up in one word: Grace.

In verse 24 of Romans 7, Paul concludes, “Who will rescue me from this body of death? Thanks be to God—through Jesus Christ our Lord!” Our Lord doesn’t desire us to live in weary discouragement at our failings. Every time we fall, we have access to another measure of grace and forgiveness from the Cross— enough to propel us up again. Spiritual growth is a lost cause when it's dependent upon us, but it isn't meant to be. We can only draw our strength and
sustenance from Jehova-M'Kaddesh. The Lord Who Sanctifies.

Yes, it is a constant cycle. Yes, we are going to keep up the yelping and crashing until the day we die. No, none of us will ever be able to declare that we’ve “attained it”, or that we’re “there”. And yet, our effort is not fruitless.

Constant exercise makes the legs stronger. While it may feel as though we aren't getting anywhere, the sensation isn't grounded in reality. Whenever we are intent upon seeking and obeying God, He responds by opening our eyes a little bit more, revealing that the branch is higher than we thought it was. Each time, the opening of our eyes requires more strenuous jumping than before, but grace will allow us to jump higher as the branch soars upward. We may not ever get any closer to it, but it's essential to remember that God doesn’t keep our perception of the branch stationary, either. He's always moving it higher. That means we're moving, too.

So it will go on; forever exploring more of the unfathomable riches of our Maker, forever being taught, forever being humbled, forever being awed. And then, on the glorious day when we breathe our last, the imperfect will finally be swallowed up by the Perfect.

Put in that light, I think I want to be like Happy while I'm here—brain transplant needed or not.