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But I wouldn’t trade her for any other cat—she sleeps with me, follows me all over the house, and even does Bible study with me. She came to us by way of a woman in Pueblo (60 miles south of our home in Colorado Springs) who rescues cats. Nikki and her brother lived with an older man named Donald Ritchie, who was tragically murdered in his front yard by an ax wielder who was terrorizing the neighborhood. It was a major news headline. His two cats were subsequently picked up by this woman, given some medical care, and offered up for adoption. We selected Nikki. You may find it amusing, as I did, that the rescuer decided to name Mr. Ritchie’s male cat Lionel and the female cat Nikki (short for Nicole).
Nikki is the proverbial “scaredy cat.” She’s frightened to step outside an open exterior door, which is why I was most surprised a week ago when she did not show up for dinner. I’d just returned from hiking, biking, and camping with a friend in the mountains, and had inadvertently left both the garage and house doors open while bringing equipment inside. Certainly Nikki would not venture outside, we reasoned. But after thoroughly searching the house, we realized she was, in fact, gone. I was heartbroken, disappointed in myself, and believed I’d never see her again, particularly because we live in mountainous country where coyotes, bears, and bobcats roam.
Someone suggested placing familiar scented items inside a slightly opened garage door. So we put her litter box, one of my dirty shirts, and her food bowl there. We were not at all optimistic. But the next morning when I checked the garage, there was my gray cat, anxiously waiting inside, who then raced toward me, begging that I pick her up. She was frightened and damp, as it had rained during the night, and seemed most apologetic for misbehaving. I was so happy to see her that all I could do was hug and kiss her, thanking God for answering our prayers.
I shared this story with my counselor, who asked how I felt after welcoming her back. “Like the prodigal son’s father, filled with nothing but unconditional love,” I quickly responded. My counselor, who is young but wise in helping me with lifelong addictive behaviors, asked what I’d say to my prodigal 11-year-old inner child if I could, in fact, speak with him now. Instantly I replied, “I’d chastise him for wasting so much time, and squandering his God-given talents.”
After thinking for a moment, he said, “Let me get this straight—you treated your cat as the prodigal’s father treated the prodigal, but you would treat your prodigal self as the prodigal’s brother treated him, right?”
“I guess so.”
“Does that make sense?” he responded. “Tell me more about your formative years; in particular, what were your thoughts about failure during that period of time?”
“Hmm, while I don’t remember being explicitly told this by my parents, I grew up believing that the only way to be accepted and loved was to perform. And perform well, I did—academics, gymnastics, piano, and more. Failure was not an option—ever! To fail would count as a negative mark against me.
“It seems to me you showed your cat that it’s OK to fail, and still be loved,” he responded after a brief pause. “Perhaps it’s time for you to have a different conversation with your prodigal self, and convey that very same message. What do you think?”
“Wow,” I thought. Aware that I’m still a work in progress, I think that’s a wonderful idea, and thus plan to have that conversation. Aren’t we grateful that God doesn’t love us any less when we fail? I’m beginning to understand what the word unconditional (in unconditional love) really means.
My Prayer: Lord, help me learn how to properly speak to my inner prodigal child—in the same way I spoke to my cat following her recent indiscretion, and in the same way You speak with me. May I learn how to convey unconditional love to my wounded prodigal, so that he might be healed. In that way, may he see that he needn’t be perfect—that it’s OK to fail.Isn’t it wonderful how our Heavenly Father uses ordinary circumstances to touch us in extraordinary ways?
Here’s a candid shot of Obee during my last visit to the mountain RV, his head resting atop my study Bible:
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