Warrior Ears

At right, our cat Augie, waking up from a nap.

Do cats have redeeming value? I sometimes ask myself that about our family feline, Augie. For one thing, we can’t get through his peach-pit brain the truth that fights are dumb. Our lectures go in his warrior’s serrated ears to oblivion. So much for having an alpha male, despite the “vet fix.”

Instead, it seems that one byproduct of his presence in our family is to teach me a thing or two. It probably doesn’t surprise you that about twenty years ago somebody actually wrote a book about “All I Need to Know I Learned from My Cat.”

I was reminded of his conqueror’s complex the other morning as I sat in the rocker, Bible open. It was a peaceful, purposed morning with the cat curled up in his bed beside me, presumably dreaming of cat treats dropping from the sky.

Then I heard it: that soft cross between a chirp and haughty get-me-if-you-can, vibrating through our house walls. I looked down and saw Augie had popped awake, his ears turned toward the sound. Away to the window I flew like a flash, shoved it open and hissed while one of the notorious neighborhood feline fighters leapt over the fence.

This time it was Ivan the Terrible, my name for the scruffy orange one whose eyes gleam hate. Other times the calls to war come from Al Capone (the black tuxedoed cat-criminal) or Ho Chi Minh (for the local Siamese). There’s also Diablo (again, my tag for it), the exploding mass of gray who regularly slinks into our yard in search of violent entertainment.

They all ought to be named “Diablo” (“the devil”), as far as I’m concerned. In some ways their diabolical exploits remind me of this passage: “That enemy of yours, the devil, roams around like a lion roaring [in fierce hunger], seeking someone to seize upon and devour” (1 Peter 5:8, Amplified).

For all the problems I have with so-called domesticated cats, I can’t begin to imagine the terror of a lion. But it’s a profound image of one of the ways Satan poses. Bible teacher William MacDonald (1917-2007) pointed out that the devil sometimes comes like a snake, luring people into sin (as in moral corruption among religious leaders). Other times he is an angel of light, seeking to deceive people with what “seems” right or what the “majority” approves.

As a lion he seeks to terrorize believers throughout the world. His battle lines are vast. To remind me of that (and to pray) I have posted on the wall opposite my desk a large map of the world from “Voice of the Martyrs,” with nations color-coded for those that restrict activities of Christians or are openly hostile to believers.

So how did I get here from our cat? Maybe that God uses even life’s ordinary events (like “cat”-astrophic confrontations in the back yard) to remind us of His bigger picture.

Reunion ruminations

The notice just came for my 45th high school reunion. Oh, dear. Pass the Geritol.

I haven’t made it to a reunion yet, and no longer hear from former classmates. When you move away from the home turf, those friendships slide quickly.

My husband’s 40th reunion came around a few years ago and he signed us up for its evening cruise on Lake Chelan. The “get acquainted time” began with typical questions. Close to retiring yet? (Yes). Kids? (Yes.) Grandkids? (No.) We sipped our pop slowly as his classmates filled with alcohol, loosening their tongues and inhibitions. I was ready to leave in an hour, but the only way “off” would have been to jump overboard. Not in chilly Lake Chelan!

Finally, cruise over, we hurried off, hoping to drive home ahead of those who drank and should not have been behind a wheel. We were nearly killed by a drinking driver in 1997, and you never forget that.

Will I attend my class’s 45th? I’m undecided. Part of me wants to show up and say, “See, I turned out okay. It took a few years.”

After getting the reunion invitation, I took a memory trip through my old high school annual. A lot of kids signed with comments about my bad jokes. Was I that obnoxious? I guess I punned a lot to downplay being one of the class’s scholars. Two B’s on my record (from physical education) marred my otherwise straight-A record. Being concertmistress (first chair) of the high school orchestra was my other honor.

But I didn’t fit in with the typical high school social life. I never had a boyfriend and never went to a school dance. My closest friendships were girls in “Horizon Club,” the teen version of Camp Fire.

As I turned the pages of my high school annual, I noticed an autograph I’d forgotten about. A friend named Bev, whom I remember as a kind person, had thanked me for my work on the Horizon Club scrapbook. Under her name she had put “Galatians 2:20.”

A few years later, I would claim the same text as my “life verse” when I determined that Jesus Christ would define my life’s purpose. “I have been crucified with Christ,” it begins—not a pretty image, but one that defines a significant spiritual decision.

I’ve lived 70% of my life since high school, and I have changed a lot. I had the privilege of mission service, graduate studies, and jobs in publications. I found God to be the God of all comfort when my parents died six months apart when I was 31 and still single.

At 34 I married a 36-year-old teacher, also never married before. We lived simply; I became a coupon-clipper and thrift store visitor. But we paid off our small house and our children made it through college debt-free.

The shy teen who sweated oral class reports now speaks to women’s meetings and retreats. The rookie newspaper reporter who pounded out obituaries moved on to the privilege of writing Christian books.

Our class motto was: “For the best is what we strive, we’re the class of ’65.” Forty-five years later, part of that still makes sense. My “striving for the best” grows out of the last part of Galatians 2:20: “The life I live in the body, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave Himself for me.”

If I do turn up at the reunion, that’s what I’d want my classmates to know. I’m not the skinny, nerdy violinist they once knew, but a woman seasoned by life’s hard places and grounded by faith. And, alas, no longer stick-thin.