Scrappy's Big Adventure

He sits by the patio door looking out at the farm cats on the porch. Once in a while he scratches his paw on the window, trying to catch their attention. His ears perk up as he hears them bickering with each other outside.

Scrappy wonders what it would be like to be out there with the farm cats.

After all, he used to be one.

Separated from his mother as she coyly moved her litter from the back of the barn to the front of the house, he spent the cold, dark November night crying in desperation. Longing to find the warmth and comfort his mother’s thick fur coat offered, he scrunched his body tightly into the corner of the window well, slightly protected from the impaling winter wind. Disoriented and literally lost, his cries went on into the night.

Until I tucked myself into bed for the night, pulled the warm quilt up over my chin and reached over to flick off the lamp.

It was at that precise moment of silence, in a house that had went to sleep for the night, that Scrappy’s cries could finally be heard.

I crawled out of bed and grabbed the flashlight from the drawer. Slipping my feet into my boots and throwing on my winter coat over my robe, I headed out the door. As I rounded the corner of the house, a gust of wind blew a swarm of leaves into my face. I pulled my hood up and held it tightly around my neck. Holding the flashlight in the other hand, I pointed it into the well below my bedroom window.

Picking up the little kitten and tucking him inside my jacket, I quickly ran back to the house.

This little yellow and white ball of fur quickly became my Scrappy little cat, the cat who I rescued from the throws of another impending Wisconsin winter.

With the snow gone and the sun shining brightly, yesterday Scrappy wanted to go outside. He wanted to explore. He wanted to check out those cool farm cats he was always gazing at through the patio door all winter long.

So I let him out.

Eight hours later, as the sun began to set and the cold March air returned for the evening, I began to call for him. And call for him.

There was no sign of Scrappy.

Not that I was worried, after all – he was just a cat.

And cats love to be outside. And explore.

But it was a little chilly for a cat with no winter coat.

It wasn’t long and the morning sun was peeking in my bedroom window. I got up to make myself a cup of coffee. As I walked past the patio door, who do you think was there?

Scrappy.

I opened the door to greet him, but he dashed right past me to his dish. Lily, our veteran house cat, immediately bounded into the kitchen to see what the ruckus was all about. Right away, Lily put her nose into gear, checking out something different about Scrappy.

He smelled different.

Like outside.

She looked at Scrappy as if to ask, “What was it like out there?” She wanted to know, “Did you have fun?” Still uncertain, she pressed him for more answers, “Were you scared?” “What did you do?” “Are you going back outside?”

Scrappy, truly exhausted from his big adventure and subsequently all the questions Lily was bugging him with, jumped onto my bed and slept the rest of the day.

Yesterday Scrappy had a big adventure. But today he didn’t want to go back out.

He just wanted to sleep.

Faith

A young woman I know who had just lost her mother to a three year battle with cancer summed her feelings up by saying, “even though I’ve prepared myself for this day for the last three years, there is never a right time to let go, it’s still so hard.”

A friend of mine who had unexpectedly lost her mother over a weekend’s time summed her feelings up by saying something very similar. Even though she knew her mother was now where she wanted to be, the loss of someone we love is never easy.

And a young man, whom I didn’t even know personally - who lived so many more years than any doctor had ever expected him to, left his family on earth just recently. His aunt says, “We were all blessed to have him in our life to teach us many things. I’m glad he is at peace and no longer in pain.”

Still, loss is more than a human being can handle alone. It takes years for the pain to subside. It takes years to turn heartache into memories. And whether our loss is a loss of a human life, or a loss of a part of ourselves through accident or injury, we need to pray for the strength to overcome. We need to pray for the strength of our faith to carry us through. And we need to pray for the strength of our family and friends to help us live again.

Because that’s the hard part. Living again. While the world around us moves on with each sunrise and sunset, our world is at a standstill, empty and void. It takes a lot of patience, perseverance, and prayer to overcome this loss. And faith that God will show us the way – to find our lives again.

As written in Hebrews 11:1, "Faith is being sure of what we hope for, and certain of what we do not see".

These are truly comforting words. Faith that our loved ones are at peace with the Lord. Faith that we will see them again someday.

Colors of Spring

They sat side by side in perfect rows, the colors of spring popping out before my eyes. Spring green, yellow and pink. Stripes in tan, pale orange and light blue. Bursts of multi-colored flowers and geometrics. One couldn’t escape this freshness, this newness of the season.

My eyes were drawn to the spring green color. I picked it up. I contemplated its size. I could see my sister with this one. Or the yellow one. I wondered - could I be the green one?

So many sizes to choose from. Where to begin? My desire to downsize led me to the smaller versions. But past failures still fresh in my mind, I quickly remembered the contents of my life spilled out upon the seat of my car or the kitchen table as I frantically rummaged for a pen – or my cell phone – or my tube of Chapstick. I have so many in my closet already – remnants of those failed attempts to downsize. Useless for anything, other than taking up precious space in my unorganized life.

I held the small green one. I looked inside it. I put it over my shoulder. I put it back.

I held the larger green one. I looked inside it. I put it over my shoulder. I put it back.

I held the striped one, the yellow one, the flowered one and even a tan one. I looked inside them all. I put them over my shoulder. I put them back.

Tucked in on the top shelf at the end of the row I spotted it.

A black one. Just the right size. I loved everything about it. The color. The size. The style.

Everything except one thing.

The price. I turned the price tag over. Forty-eight bucks – even on sale!I put it back.

After all, who would pay more than twenty bucks for a purse? Not me.

Besides, I already have a black one.

So I will go through the next couple months, envying every green or yellow or pink purse I see slung over the shoulder of women who are obviously more gutsy than me.

Until the fall colors come out – and then maybe I’ll spring for brown.

Or maybe not.

Our Comfort Zone (Or Discomfort Zone)

My almost five-year-old granddaughter walks in the door with her footed jammies stuffed into her snow boots. With a tremendous tug we finally get the boots off. She runs to the living room to play. What could be better than spending all day Saturday wearing your jammies?

Never mind the fact that she won’t be able to play outside in the snow later on this afternoon. Never mind the fact that she won’t be able to run errands with me.

She’s my jammie girl. And she would go to school every day in her pajamas – if her mother let her. And I can understand how she feels tucked in her snuggly fleece. It’s kind of like having your blankie wrapped around you all day long.

We’ve all had days in our comfort zone, right?

My almost forty-five year old sister gets dressed for a trip to town – bra and all. (She works at home- and I swear, wears her jammies all day long too.) Her car whizzes down the street and out onto the highway. A couple miles farther and she begins to squirm back and forth – trying to adjust the position of her bra. It doesn’t feel quite right – probably because she hasn’t worn one all week.

She wiggles some more but by now the bra has become alive and starts sucking the air out of her lungs. In desperation to get her breath, she pulls her car over into the parking lot of a vacant school building. Driving behind the building she quickly slams the car into park, sending the loose gravel flying.

My sister swiftly rips her bra off and fires it into the back seat, as her fifteen year old daughter’s eyes nearly pop out of her head in disbelief. In the wink of an eye and the squeal of a tire, the car is back on the road, headed toward town.

As they pull into the parking lot at the mall, her daughter nonchalantly remarks, “You should probably take that bra out of the back window, Mom.”

We’ve all had days when we were in our discomfort zone, right?

A Revelation of Sorts

This past Wednesday, Ash Wednesday - marked the beginning of the Lenten Season in the Christian church. I have never been on board one hundred percent with some of the traditions and symbolisms found in my church, but instead, choose to worship in my own personal way – quietly and by myself.

But as the parishioners made their pilgrimage to the front of the church on Ash Wednesday to have ashes traced onto their foreheads in the formation of a cross, I couldn’t help but notice something very special.

In front of me and behind me, no longer did anyone differ by the color of their hair. No longer did anyone differ by the color of their skin or other features of their face. No longer did anyone differ by the clothes or jewelry they wore. No longer were there people of different occupations, different intelligence, and different opinions. No longer were there men, women and children filling the pews.

As I gazed out across the people before me all I saw was crosses – made with the ashes of this very special Wednesday in our Christian faith.

Behind the crosses I saw people, myself included, humbled, and filled with the desire to become closer to God and to share in the promise of God.

Amidst all this symbolism I had a revelation of sorts, and feel I have gained an understanding into one of the most revered traditions celebrated by Christians over the world.

Thank you, Lord.