Theology and the Cat

It's been raining a lot lately, and finally with a dry sky, I needed to get outside. The girls were happily occupied grinding Play-doh into the carpet, so I stepped out back. The chill of the air made me draw a quick, cold breath into my lungs. It felt sharp, like the gut level pain I've known these past few months. The almost barren trees and grey sky tugged mercilessly at my melancholy. All of a sudden, I felt like Sadness from the movie Inside Out, and imagined myself doing a dramatic face plant right there in the yard. Pathetic, I know.

I stood amidst the dead leaves, getting lost in thoughts of all that this year has held. I was being swallowed up in the moment...one I knew might possibly end in a good cry. Maybe a good bawl would make me feel better? Perhaps I could get it out so I could move on? I decided, yes.

But then the cat came.

Yes, the cat. The feral kitten that Andrew discovered last year, who, to avoid capture, fought with all that her tiny razor teeth and claws could muster. She shredded his hands, his blood the christening into her dreaded life of domestication. She treated us like captor scum, but eventually decided she liked the reliance of daily food, water, and a warm towel on the garage floor. After some time, she made friends with our first cat, then reasoned that I wasn't so bad either.

It's been a year since we took her in, and now, after a great deal of patience and love towards her, she won't leave me alone. It's actually kind of annoying. I can hardly walk without tripping while she wraps around my ankles. And if I don't pay her enough attention, she nips at me, a reminder that her love tank isn't quite full enough.

So, in my pitiful moment, here she trotted over to interrupt me. Meowing, and leg curling, and nipping away, she was not to be ignored. I realized she thought her needs to be greater than mine, and that whatever face plant I held in my heart, would have to be set aside to feed her belly. She snaked through my legs as we walked to the garage, her singing praises all the way, knowing her dreams were about to come true. Or so I assumed.

I stopped short when I saw her food bowl. It was full.

Conviction settled over me thick. Her need wasn't food. She just wanted to spend time with me. Not just passive, admiring-at-a-distance time, but an all-up-in-my-business, nipping-at-my ankles time.

Am I like that with my dearest people? And more importantly, am I like that with God? With every need attended to and a bowl brimming with grace, am I anxious to run to Him? Not to ask for more of anything, except for more of Him?

"My bowl is full, God, but I just need a little more of You. To be in Your Presence. To hear You. To be filled up with what can't be seen or accounted for. To savor the Presence so strong and sweet that derails all my fears. To receive Your love, in the way that You give it, because it's for my good. Because You know what's truly best for me, even if I don't want it at the time."

Many thanks to the persistent, formerly feral cat, for the reminder that what I need more than a pity party, is more of Him. Goodbye Sadness. I'm present to breathe in His essence, hear His truth, and be comforted by His love, which mends my wounds, and sets all things right in the proper time.