Some people say it is never, ever okay to tell a lie. But I'm not so sure about that. 

In my younger days, in my hometown of Missoula, Montana, I once formed an unlikely friendship with an elderly, eccentric woman named Caroline. Caroline lived a reclusive life in a shack on the edge of town with her dog, Chester. Some people claimed Caroline was crazy, but to me, she was just one of those people who wasn’t afraid to be themselves.

One December day, I was setting up Caroline’s Christmas tree in her living room, and she said, “Erik, what’s wrong? You look like you’re feeling down in the dumps.”

I said, “Yes, Caroline, it’s because my hunting dog, Murf, just died.” (It should be noted here that in Montana the death of a guy’s hunting dog is a pretty big deal). I said, “Yeah, Murf was the best bird dog ever, and I lost him right in the middle of hunting season, no less.”

Then Caroline says, “Oh! Oh!” and she points down to her own dog, Chester. "Take Chester out hunting with you. He’s a natural-born bird dog. He’d love to go. Take him, please!”

I look down at this dog and, Geezus Christ. He was flabby, he walked crooked, he drooled constantly, and he always had a goofy look on his face. Despite Caroline’s assertions, Chester was not bird dog material.

I shook my head and said, “I don’t think so, Caroline.”

Then Caroline stiffened and pointed to a sign she had hanging on her wall. It was simply four letters—WWJD. She said, “Erik, that stands for ‘What would Jesus do.' You think about that.”

I indeed thought about it, but I just could not envision Jesus taking this dog bird hunting. But Caroline became so insistent that I finally gave in and said, “OK, I’ll take Chester out this weekend.”

I always like to keep my promises, so that weekend, I indeed took Chester hunting. God Almighty, it was a disaster from start to finish. The stupid dog barked at everything in sight, scaring the birds away for miles around. After eight hours of futility, I finally managed to bag a single pheasant, only to watch Chester walk up to it and chew the thing to pieces. It was the worst hunting trip ever, and all because of Chester.

When I returned Chester to Caroline that evening, she said, “How did he do? I bet he was great, right?”

Although I usually pride myself on my honesty, right then I looked Caroline straight in the eye and told the biggest lie I’d ever told in my life. I said, “Caroline, Chester is the best bird dog in Montana.” I felt guilty for lying, but the delighted look on Caroline’s face seemed to justify my sin.  

A couple of weeks after this incident, I got a call from Caroline’s sister with some tragic news. She said Caroline had died unexpectedly of heart failure. So good old Caroline was gone, and I felt a twinge of guilt because my very last words to her had been a lie.

A few days later, I attended Caroline’s funeral service. The preacher was droning on with the eulogy, and out of the blue, he says, “…and Caroline was always proud of her dog, Chester, who was known as the best bird dog in Montana.” I started to squirm. Apparently, my big lie had crossed a threshold to where a preacher was telling it in public, and there was something very creepy about that.

After the service we all got in line to pay our final respects at the casket. By now, I’d begun feeling as if I’d committed an unforgivable sin. Next thing I knew, I was standing in front of the casket, looking at Caroline’s innocent, lifeless face. Right then, I could have sworn she was trying to tell me something.

Then suddenly it hit me loud and clear, and I was at peace. She was saying, “Erik, Jesus would’ve done the same damn thing.”