Today, while performing the routine "home cleanse" that takes place after a full weekend of family fun, I hear a soft "meow" from the top of my younger son's bunk.
Curious, I look up to see that I've just thrown his winter jacket on top of our overfed orange tabby cat, Rosie. She chirrups cheerfully, kneads her claws a few times, and settles back to her midmorning nap.
I shake my head, unbelieving.
"No thank you," I firmly state, hefting her around her ample middle and lugging her towards the front door. "You've eaten three gerbils already. You're no longer an indoor cat."
Rosie seems mildly surprised as I deposit her on the cold front porch, despite the fact that this very same process has been repeated almost daily for many months. Somehow, this sweet, phlegmatic feline, just can't make sense of her new status. It's just so inviting indoors -- especially with this winter's pervasive fog and endless drizzle. Her innocent olive eyes seek my face me as I headed back to my task, but I force myself to stay strong. Surely, she knows better by now.
But aren't we all, honestly, a little bit like this cat? God tells me no, yet I weasel my way into the comfort I so desire ... only to find Him lovingly depositing me back where He knows I belong. No, not all comfort is bad, but comfort against His express orders smacks of sin. It's amazing that I feel so surprised every time He reminds me of this -- as though He hasn't told me the same thing before!
I hope, someday, my mental capacity can exceed that of my sleep-loving cat - who even know has begun scratching at the front door in hopes of a return to the bunk bed. No means no, and I pray God helps me to listen when He makes His will plainly clear.
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