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| How my poor kitty’s trauma on moving day can help us understand our own great trials |
I’m writing this one at a table in our new apartment. The winter sun beams through the blinds as I type, cup of coffee to my right, and our sweet kitty relaxing on the chair to my left. I wonder if Ody even remembers his utter terror just a few days ago.
At about 11 AM on Saturday morning, my husband Stephen’s friends arrived at our former home. As soon as the two large men entered, Ody scurried away. After a few minutes of gentle coaxing, he cautiously creeped towards them, ears arched back and pupils dilating into two dark moons. Tragically, his last ounce of bravery vanished as soon as they began lifting our heavy furniture, slamming doors, and stomping up and down the stairs.
A few minutes into the move, I figured I ought to remove him from the chaos and keep him in the bathroom with his water bowl and litter box, just in case he decided to slip out. However, I looked in every room and every corner, and couldn’t find him anywhere. I immediately asked Stephen and his friends if Ody got out, and they replied that he hadn’t. So I took a deep breath, opened can of cat food, and called him throughout the apartment. Nothing. When the three guys continued searching, I panickedly told Stephen, “He ISN’T there! We HAVE to look outside!” I grabbed a cardigan and took the can of food with me down the stairs to search the surrounding area.
“Oooodyyyy!” I lilted, clicking my tongue intermittently. I walked all around our building, boots crunching snow as I peaked underneath every bush and behind every tree. As each minute passed, my heartbeat grew faster and increasing panic burned my throat. It dawned on me that after years of dealing with chronic pain and anxiety, my precious cat running away would be the straw that broke the camel’s back and would likely send me spiraling into deep sadness and regret. The only thing keeping me from immediately indulging in my inevitable breakdown was the fact that Stephen’s friends were nearby and I didn’t want to appear totally insane. I tried to think calmly and coolly, leading me to swing by the leasing office to ask the employees if anyone reported a found cat. Tragically, they had not.
On my desperate walk from the leasing office back to our place, I thought about how I would convince my husband that there was no way we were leaving our apartment until Ody came back. If we just left for our new place right now, there was no way we would find him. I didn’t care if we had to spend hundreds more on a last-minute extended lease-- We would stay every night there until he came home.
When I returned to the apartment, however, Stephen told me he had found him! He somehow wedged himself underneath the mattress (that laid on the floor) and Stephen saw two little paws peeping out. He had immediately placed him in the bathroom, where Ody found the tiniest corner to hide in for the next couple hours. I reached my arms into the corner to pet his small, stiff body and eventually he purred a little. After bringing him some extra comfort food, I helped finished the move, and fortunately that night, our family of three had made it safely to our new home,
That night, Stephen and I reflected on these events. I told him, “It’s so sad that there was no way I could communicate with him that everything was going to be okay...that we weren’t abandoning him or giving him to someone else, but that we were just moving from one home to the next. He just needed to trust us.” A few days later, Ody has returned completely to his former sassy self, jumping on counters, constantly whining for food, and acting as though everything revolves around him (which...in our household, is a pretty accurate assessment). It’s like the trauma had never even happened and he is as happy as ever.
I thought Stephen’s response was pretty genius-- he compared Ody’s terror to what humans feel when confronted with suffering. To Ody, Stephen’s two friends probably appeared as pure evil-- they were complete strangers who invaded our home and ruthlessly stole all of our things as Ody’s paralyzing fear confined him to a corner, completely defenseless. This is how we all feel when faced with suffering that we can’t understand. We are so overwhelmed with fear by all the chaos surrounding us-- but the reality is, we are only terrified because we are ignorant. Just like Ody didn’t understand that we were all three simply moving to another apartment (and that the transitory hard part would be over soon), we often can’t understand why God would subject us to our own personal suffering on Earth. If we would just allow ourselves to trust God as our all-knowing and loving father, our fears would vanish. We would know we are safe and that ultimately, all the trials would end once we reach Heaven.
Another interesting perspective is to imagine what it’s like for God to see his children lost, confused, and terrified. It reminds me of the Parable of the Lost Sheep-- where Jesus is compared to a shepherd, leaving his 99 sheep to find the lost 1 of the herd. While I don’t think this is an exact analogy to my situation, I can, in a very miniscule way, understand the lengths God is willing to go to seek out his one lost children and keep her safe. An outside perspective may think it’s irrational for the shepherd to leave 99 sheep in pursuit of just 1. Similarly, an outside perspective may think my willingness to stay at my apartment until I found my cat would be irrational. There are tons of more cats and I could easily just adopt another one and move on from Ody...But that’s not the point. I don’t want to just adopt another cat-- I want my cat, the cat whom I already love and am supposed to care for. Of course, I think this parable will resonate even on a much deeper level when we have kids of our own-- as much as I love my cat, I understand a human’s life is far more valuable. Still, it’s really just very beautiful to get a tiny glimpse into how much God loves me in my own love for my kitty.
Of course, my literary nerd brain won’t let me stop there with the metaphors. Ody is actually a nickname for our cat’s real name: Odysseus...Yep, that’s right. Our little Scottish Straight kitten is named after the ruthless hero of the Greek epic poem, The Odyssey. After winning the Trojan War, Odysseus and his men battle various monsters (a witch, a cylcops, etc.) and undergo a myriad of diffcult struggles on their 10-year voyage back home to Ithaca. My struggle with chronic pain has given me a far more profound respect for this story (and others like it) because it gives such incredible meaning to my trial. Throughout the course of each of our lives, we are confronted with many confusing and seemingly impossible battles, but the promise of our home in Heaven is what keeps us going and is what ultimately, makes it all more than worth it.
Whether you currently can relate more to a lone lost sheep, the heroic Odysseus battling strange monsters, or to a 10-month old kitten, petrified in a small corner on “Moving Day,” please remember your struggle is just one part of the story. Sometimes the chaos and fear is so overwhelming that it’s all we can see, but don’t allow it to distort your view of the incredible reality of what’s to come. Change is scary, and I often just wish I could go back to how my life was before chronic pain struck. Just like my kitten, I was comfortable where I was and this transition is often terrifying. But when I can take a deep breath, reflect upon God’s infinite wisdom and love for me, and try to see things a bit more objectively, I know that my trials are merely a vehicle to get me to my truest and eternal home. And once I arrive in Heaven, I highly doubt I will be looking back, wishing things were how they used to be.
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