Food Forgetfulness

His favorite place to perch is the rug right in front of his feeding area. It doesn’t matter if he’s been out snooping around the yard for just an hour after the last feeding. When he comes in, he heads for the feeding place and presents his practiced look of please-feed-me-I’m-starving. According to the

cat-age calculator you can find on the internet (for real), our 16-year-old rescue cat, Augie, is comparable in age span to an 80-year-old human. Maybe that explains his apparent memory failures regarding his last meal or snack.  Despite frequent snacks, he has neither cartoon-cat-Garfield girth nor wild-cat-scrawniness. When we take him in for his license-required rabies shot, the vet assistant who weighs him often remarks, “Wow, he’s a big fellow.”  Not that he’d break any records like some You-Tube tubbies....

 

One thing Augie’s “hunger pose” reminds me of is my own hunger for things that really matter.  I’m not talking about personal favorites, like split pea soup, green bell peppers, and chocolate ice cream.  Rather, it’s spiritual hunger, as in this “appetite” metaphor of Jeremiah 15:16: Thy words were found, and I did eat them; and thy word was unto me the joy and rejoicing of mine heart: for I am called by thy name, O LORD God of hosts. (KJV)

Jeremiah didn’t actually chew and swallow the scriptures (leave that for another prophecy, found in Ezekiel 3:1-3). A more recent translation of Jeremiah 15:16 goes:

Your words are what sustain me.  They bring me great joy and are my heart’s delight, for I bear your name, O LORD God Almighty. (TEV)

Basically Jeremiah was saying, “I’m hungry for the Word of God.  It satisfies me spiritually like nothing else because I belong to the Author.”  The verse comes in the context of a lament about how far his nation had strayed from God.  In fact, he even wishes for a moment that he hadn’t been born (v. 10). He’s preaching God’s judgment on national sins, and nobody wants to hear that message. His only solace is going back to the pure spiritual food of God’s Word.  For him, this meant the Pentateuch (first five books), psalms and proverbs.  God tells him not to give up the spiritual learning curve or preaching about God’s holiness.  “If you speak words that are worthy,” God told the prophet, “you will be my spokesman” (v. 19). As I witness the spiritual decline of my times, I realize God could use many more as spokespeople speaking out Truth, no matter how unpopular.

 Our adequately-fed cat also has “cat treats,” little nuggets of intense flavor (one package we bought on sale boasts of “catnip” flavor). But we don’t get true spiritual nourishment by gobbling devotional treats—the “in-and-out-in-a-minute” type. They’re better than nothing, but real spiritual nourishment comes with thoughtful, application-oriented reading of scriptures. And even though I make fun of my cat’s senile forgetfulness about his last meal, it’s okay to have a healthy appetite for the Word of God, finding in it the joy and rejoicing of my heart.

Booksigning & Soup-stirring

A few blogs ago I wrote about being in my sixth "Chicken Soup for the Soul" compilation, one subtitled "My Very Good, Very Bad Cat." I'll be signing copies and sharing tips about writing for the "Chicken Soup" series at 6:30 p.m. Tuesday, March 15, at the public library in Wenatchee, WA. There will be freebies for writers, too.  No, I won't bring Augie, who at probably 15 years old (which is senile in cat years) well-deserves his long naps in the corner. Here, he's "modeling" the dreaded injury cone he wore the Christmas morning he got tired of his convalescence from fight wounds, and decided to escape to the wild and snowy world.  After three weeks, we decided he'd frozen to death.  Obviously, he hadn't, and my "Soup" story, called "The Prodigal Cat," should serve up some smiles and wisdom.

Our Chicken Soup cat

Our 14-some-year-old cat, Augie, unwillingly posed for his author breakout photo with the newest Chicken Soup for the Soul volume, My Very Good, My Very Bad Cat.  He qualified for the second category (bad) about three or four years ago when he decided Christmas morning was a wickedly great time to escape his injury containment, despite having a recovery cone on his head after a vet trip for fight injuries. After three weeks of no cat, we decided his final hour had come, probably in some frozen shed. Then he returned home, repentant in his cat way.

My essay, one of 101 chosen for the book, is titled "The Prodigal Cat," and pokes fun at his ill-chosen decision.  But I think there's also a big lesson from it for our human tendency to choose to walk apart from God's best plan for our lives. Like the Prodigal Son lesson taught by Jesus, we tend to think we have it all figured out, and then find "our way" is the wrong way. The book offers the comforting balance that, besides cats who really earn the title "very bad cat," there are some amazingly good cats, too.  This is my sixth time to have an essay in a "Chicken Soup" compilation. The book officially releases Feb. 6.

Get it!

When I open up my internet’s “home page,” besides the usual distressing news, I sometimes spot a “teaser photo” of a silly cat feature. These are the ones with cats playing the piano or chasing laser-pen beams up the wall. Ho, hum, my son’s cat has chased lasers for years. In fact, the cat wore out one laser pointer so I took over ours, which our cat had no interest in. Actually, our cat would dismiss himself when he saw the dot running around the rug.

Not so “Rosebud,” my son’s cat—she (now “it”) of exceeding fluff and two-color eyes, adopted from an animal shelter.  Absolutely an indoor cat (except for rogue slipping out the door when groceries are being carried in), her life consists mostly of sleeping, carrying around her grungy Ty © toys, slipping under the furniture covers to illegally scratch the upholstery, and letting her humans know (1) she is hungry or (2) her litter box is foul beyond belief.

 

She comes alive, however, when the dot from a laser pointer starts dancing over the rug and up the wall. Her vertical leaps, for her girth and weight, would make her a star recruit for a pro basketball team. My two-year-old grandson stands there and hoots (which is funny enough in itself) when a parent engages the cat in the fantasies of laser play.

Chasing after fantasies....that reminds me of some ho-hums from a book of the Bible, written by a king who had all the wealth and entertainment earth could offer.
I have seen all the things that are done under the sun; all of them are meaningless, a chasing after the wind. (Ecclesiastes 1:14)
Had he lived today, Solomon might have edited that to “chasing after the cat toy with a laser beam.”

 My point (pun intended) is this: We can be numbed by artificial pleasure or seek after the God who provides genuine and pure pleasure.  Remember, Adam and Eve were created with all the senses that brought enjoyment.  For example, I can’t imagine an apple with the taste and texture of cardboard.  God really packed that fruit with pleasure: color, crunch, taste, smell. Without the capacity for pleasure, we’d be robots.

But if we pursue only “pleasure,” we’re missing the real deal.  Having created us in His image, God also intended for us to pursue things that reflect His character. Paul gave us a good list of “pursue-afters” in both his letters to Timothy, his protégé and a young pastor surrounded by pleasure-seeking.  These included: righteousness, godliness, faith, love, endurance, gentleness and peace (1 Timothy  6:11, 2 Timothy 2:22).

Such character qualities aren’t flashy (like the cat’s elusive laser toy), but they’ll go a long ways in building a life that’s meaningful.

Guard cats and fear alarms

Because it had a likeness of our black-and-gray tabby, named Augie, our neighbor couldn’t resist buying me this sign for the window: “Beware: Guard cat on duty.” Ha! The only thing he guards is his food dish. Whenever he comes inside, he pads over to his water and food dishes and sits about eighteen inches away from them like, Read my mind. Thus I was a bit amused the other day when I answered the door to a muscular fireman and his petite woman assistant. I was expecting them for a smoke alarm program the fire department is conducting. But I wasn’t prepared for his opening remark: “Do you have a cat? Would you please put him out? We’re allergic to cats.”

Dutifully I scooped the lazy lug from his sleeping corner and deposited him in the chilly shock of “outside.” They proceeded with their ten-minute smoke alarm business. When they got ready to leave, Augie was waiting on the front porch, eager to get back to the warm indoors. The sight of him alarmed (no pun intended) the woman assistant, who again pleaded “allergy!” So once again I had to remove the cat, this time from the porch. Funny, there were no allergy flare-ups while they were in our home (which has eleven years' worth of cat dander in it). And our overweight, geriatric feline is the antithesis of vicious, with the rare exception of guarding the back yard from Pancho Villa and Ho Chi Minh (my nicknames for the local desperado cats who dare to invade his home turf). They haven’t been around much since I threw a rotten tomato in their yowling direction.

Our cat’s wimpy representation of the idea of “guarding” helped me appreciate even more the spiritual concept of “guard.” Even a thousand burly firemen (not the “allergic” ones) can’t come close to the “guarding” we’re promised in Philippians 4:7: “And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus” (KJV). One of the key words in this passage is “keep” (more accurately, “guard” in NIV, NASB, ESV, and the New King James). The Amplified version puts it: “shall garrison and mount guard over your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.”

The translation makes a difference. “Keep” has a passive sense, like putting a keepsake in a cedar chest. “Guard” implies deliberate, powerful action. The original Greek, phroureo, was a military term and referred to guarding in a garrison. Of this, Greek scholar W.E. Vine remarked that it described not just protection but “inward garrison as by the Holy Spirit.” One Bible scholar said it’s the peace of “holy repose” that floods the believer’s soul when he leans hard on God. It’s being able to say, “The news or situation is bad, but God is bigger than this and I will trust Him.” Or, as Frances Ridley Havergal wrote in the refrain to the beloved hymn “Like a River Glorious”:
Stayed upon Jehovah,
Hearts are fully blessed;
Finding, as He promised,
Perfect peace and rest.
Remember that, next time your “fear alarm” goes off. Your Holy Guard stands ready.

Navel-grazing

I’d just sent my husband off to his substitute-teaching job after one of his favorite breakfasts. I was virtuous and made him waffles with bits of bacon in them. Before going to the computer for my “work,” I took some time after washing dishes to glance at headlines in the morning paper. On the rug in front of me, Augie our cat began his morning routine, licking his already-overgroomed belly. Parts are so bare they look shaved. I thought of the cliché “navel-gazing,” except in his case it’s “navel-grazing.”

“Navel-gazing,” which gives a word picture of constantly inspecting one’s belly button, has come to mean excessive introspection, self-absorption, self-analysis or focus on a single issue. In other words, people start singing a one-note solo, often a pity-party song.

I was thinking about that when I read this headline: “Hit-run victim helped men at homeless shelter.” My momentary sadness deepened when I learned the victim was born with cerebral palsy and was driving his motorized wheelchair when hit by a suspected drunk driver. Tonight, as I do the first Wednesday of every month, I will speak to convicted drunk drivers at an “educational panel” required as part of their sentencing. Two others also speak out about the dangers and prevalence of this serious problem, of which the audience members, because of their arrests, are now a documented part. They’re surprised by the statistics that 12,000 a year die on American roads because of impaired driving. That’s 1,000 a month, about one every 45 minutes. And just as many people grieve their deaths as those who lose a loved one in other tragic circumstances, like war. Most important, drunk-driving deaths are 100% preventable: by not drinking and driving.

Why am I there, since I don’t drink alcohol? Because my family was almost killed by a drinking driver in 1997. Alcohol so impaired his driving abilities that he crossed the center line at too high a speed and smashed into our car. We were about 250 miles from home, headed home from a vacation.Though injured, we survived. But that incident, like the deaths of my parents six months apart when I was 30 and still single, became a defining incident in who I am. Yes, I grieved those losses for a season, but I moved on. I knew I needed to transform the pain into something good instead of prolonging a pity party. In other words, moving past navel-gazing.

Back to the 57-year-old man with cerebral palsy. Despite his disability, he graduated from a university with a major in business and later got a master’s degree in psychology. He was an advocate of handicap-accessible streets and volunteered at several charities, including a shelter for homeless men. For that he received a distinguished award for community service. In an interview after that honor, he said, “I have two choices. I could stay home and be bitter and think ‘poor handicapped me, wah wah,’ or go out and help people and think positively.” Upon reading that, I put down the paper and said “Wow!” That’s a message able-bodied people need. He didn’t spend his life navel-gazing (or even navel-grazing--massaging a certain area of his life to get more sympathy). He pursued compassion and excellence to the limits of his abilities.

I can’t do much about my cat’s excessive grooming. Because he seems healthy otherwise, we’ve decided it’s not that big a deal. We did switch to a gluten-free cat food (more expensive, of course!) upon hearing that it sometimes helps aging cats who overgroom. In a way, I’m glad he has that somewhat-bare belly. For when he does his feline acrobatics to groom, God usually sends me a message: to check where I might be navel-gazing and turn my eyes instead to how He helps me through difficult times. The Bible is full of reminders of that, and one came as I read my Bible just after reading about drunk-driving victim.
But as for me, I will always have hope; I will praise you more and more.
My mouth will tell of your righteousness, of your salvation all day long, though I know not its measure (Psalm 71:14-15).

Feed me!

When our son and daughter went away to college the same year, leaving their parents empty-nesters (at least during the school term), I tried to recruit our family cat for a joke picture. I propped him on our daughter’s dining room chair with his paws on the table and a dish in front to demonstrate that we still had one “child” (a furry one) at home. But before I could get a decent photo, the cat had jumped to the floor, where he knew he belonged.

With both now married, we’re truly empty nesters, and the cat’s still around. No, we don’t set a plate for him at the table. But his internal alarm (or at least his sniffer) knows when we are about to eat, even if he’s off in the corner sleeping. One time as he sauntered between our chairs, his meow coincided with our “amen,” reminding us to “drop it down.” Yes, we have stooped to offering our cat scraps of “people food” —and he expects it!

That’s probably why I had more than the usual level of interest in a passage from which our pastor recently preached. He tackled the story in Mark 7:24-30 about the Syrophoenician woman barging into a house near Tyre, where Jesus had gone to rest. She broke social barriers of both good manners and racial discrimination to beg Jesus to heal her daughter.

Teaching on this passage often explores the use of the word “dog,” used as a negative label for non-Jews. In contrast to our culture (which dotes on animals), dogs of Bible times were dirty, diseased scavengers—something like four-legged waste management. Everybody else would have sneered at her as another non-Jewish “dog.” Jesus used a word with more compassion, kunariois, indicating little dogs, like a family pet (rare in those days, but possible). She replied similarly, but with humility as a non-Jew seeking such a great favor, saying the little puppy-dogs (kunaria) got the scraps under the table.

The spellings differ because of the Greek “dative” and “nominative” cases, but don’t worry about that. My point is that going a layer deeper in Bible study opens up fresh understanding of a passage, even the ones we’ve read repeatedly since childhood without knowing a truly accurate rendering. Bible translation, because it deals with diverse language families and evolving vocabularies, is a complicated art and science. The “close” word isn’t always the precise word. My friends who are translating the Bible into tribal languages can vouch for that!

So what of our cat’s begging at the dinner? Maybe it’s a reminder of how much more Jesus loves us. He doesn’t throw scraps at us. Instead, He offers Himself, the very best. Though unworthy of His extravagant love, we’re exceedingly blessed.

More lessons from the cat....

I had a wordless sermon early one recent morning as I left bed about 6 a.m. for my rocker, where I keep a heating pad to help the stiffness from a lingering back issue. As soon as I settled in (ah…warm…soothing), I became aware of a pair of amber-green eyes mounted on a gray striped head staring at me. Thus began the four-point sermon, in true alliterative speech outline style:
LOOK at likely source of nourishment (buyer of cat food, mostly healthy, some filler).
LISTEN for the golden words: “Aug-cat, are you ready for breakfast?”
LICK the dish clean.
LINGER in case the human says, “Do you need more?”

After spooning that disgusting cat food in his bowl, I settled back in my rocker for more back-warming and brought my Bible to my lap. As Aug-cat slurped away, I realized there were some similarities with my “feeding time” with God.
LOOK to God, who wants to nourish me with His Word (100% healthy, no filler!)
LISTEN with my eyes for the golden words that express His love or correction.
LICK the dish clean. I read with a pen, linking repeated words, making comments in the margins.
LINGER, savoring what I’ve just read, then talking to God. If I want more, I know His answer:
LEAP back in.

Actually, the cat does say something to me in cat language. He trills a little “brrruppp?” and turns on his purr. Feeding time over, he’s at the back door, scratching at the threshold, eager to face his fearful world and protect his territory…for about half an hour.

Oh, cats. Sometimes the analogies end....except to remember that I should be even more eager for my morning "manna" than he is for cat slop!

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.

Escapee

With a sigh of memories, I just washed cat nose-prints off our living room window. For hours, barely balancing all 13 pounds of furry blob on the narrow windowsill, our cat would sit and contemplate the world outside.

Augie the gray tabby cat ran away Christmas morning. A determined outdoors guy, he’d had his fill of staying inside for the last three weeks while major battle wounds on his throat healed. For three weeks he’d endured a plastic “cone” on his head to keep him from scratching the wound that merited a $77 trip to the vet.

Thinking the cat was sound asleep in the corner, my husband came in the door with his arms full of wood for the fireplace. And the cat made his escape. Cone still on his head…..

We searched the neighborhood, but after five days of no cat in twenty-degree weather, it’s likely our eight and a half years of cat-care have ended.

I have a two-word conclusion: dumb cat.

As my husband remarked, “He knows where there’s a warm bed, water to drink, abundant food, and somebody ready to brush him. He made a choice.”

Maybe because he was a “rescued” cat (see the Nov. 9th blog on “The Cat of a Hundred Names”) I’ve thought of some life lessons from that. The Bible parallel that keeps coming to mind is Gomer from the book of Hosea.

No, this isn’t the “Gomer” of TV fame—the simple-minded, slack-jawed, wide-eyed gas station attendant from the “Andy Griffith Show.” This Gomer was a woman drawn to red lights, as in “immoral behavior.” By God’s command, Hosea married a harlot to illustrate Israel’s disobedience as a covenant people. Despite God’s love and miraculous care for the nation, it went after idols. Eventually, Hosea bought back his broken, wasted wife for half the going price for a slave (Hosea 3) and resumed taking care of her needs.

If you really think of Hosea’s overwhelming love, it grips your heart. And it should, because God loves us that much, and even more! Even when we pursue our own selfish agendas and end up in deep sorrow and trouble, He waits to take us back.

And so yes, we’re waiting for Augie, though it’s likely he became a coyote’s Christmas dinner or hunkered down somewhere and became a furry popsicle.

We still check the back door, thinking he might show up, still cone-headed and repentant for his impetuous escape.

But today I washed the old towels used for his bedding. I scrubbed out his eating bowls and tucked them in the container with too much uneaten cat food.

Pets come, pets go.

But one truth is certain—one I read in Psalm 103 this morning:
But from everlasting to everlasting
The Lord’s love is with those who fear him. (v. 17)

God never changes. He delights in us. And He will wait for us when we stray, loving us from afar and desiring to restore us to the joy of being His.

With New Year coming, that’s a comforting truth. No matter what we did in the past, God promises new beginnings, new hope, new purpose.

Home—enjoying God—is good.

The cat of a hundred names

The theology lesson, all two or three pounds of him, shook in a culvert pipe, alone. Probably a couple months old, he’d been abandoned at the park near our local hydroelectric dam. When no one was looking, people dumped cats and Easter bunnies there, illegally.

Becoming coyote casserole was his likely fate.

Then a father and teen son, on a guy-bonding time, passed by. They’d just left the stagnant oven of their valley home that August first. The rocky hills that shouldered the dam offered some shade, sweetened by the mist wafting off spillways.

They heard the faint “mew.” Two softies, they couldn’t leave him there. Luring him out with a chicken nugget from a nearby trash bin, they swathed him in a towel from the trunk of the car and brought him home.

To a mom who was asthmatic. Who choked and sneezed around cats.

“Where’s some tuna? Get some milk. We’ll just keep him overnight and try to find a home.”

Promises, promises.

That was more than eight years ago. The wisp of a kitten is now 15 pounds of aloofness, deprived of his malehood but not of his territorial temper. Identified with his city pet license and proof of rabies vaccine. Called “Auggie” (for August 1, when he was found) and dozens of other names. More than 150, in fact. When cleaning out the other day, I found a cat-name list my son and his sister had concocted. “Buick.” “Rumplefatskin.” “King Midas of the Golden Drool.” “Bleh.” “Mookie.” “Slug” (my favorite). I’ll spare you the entire list.

No matter how insulting the name, the cat responded in the usual cat way of ignoring us…unless we had a can labeled “Friskies” in hand and he was hungry.

That cat-name list reminded me of something wonderful about our relationship with God. Devotional author Max Lucado wrote about it. God whispers our names. He calls us by name (Isaiah 45:4). Our names are written on His hand (Isaiah 49:16). Even when we muddle under the generic name “sinner,” He knows the name He created us to have: Child of God. Lamb. Beloved. My Precious One.

He rescued us from something far worse than coyote teeth. The One who hung on a cross with a sign declaring “King of the Jews” (John 19:21) took away the condemning name, the hellish destination. He made it possible to have a new name. Redeemed One. Forgiven. Chosen.

His name is Jesus. Savior. Lord.

He whispers your name, in love. Can you hear it?