Gertie is a cat with a home body. Round, affable, and slow-moving, she seems incapable of climbing a tree, much less stalking a rabbit or engaging in feline warfare. During her few waking hours, she meanders the house in short bursts, pausing frequently to flop on one side and recuperate. She purrs easily, samples all laps for softness, and wears such a sweet expression that she seems perpetually at peace. An anomaly of a cat, always content. She's the perfect indoor pet.
Last night, she proved me wrong.
I stumbled downstairs around eleven, unable to sleep. After arranging myself on the couch and waging further warfare against insomnia, I slipped into dreamland until sometime around 3:00 am.
At this point, a curious noise awakened me. I roused and listened momentarily before recognizing the unmistakable "tunneling" sound of small paws brushing the full-length window of our front door. Although darkness obscured her, I imagined gentle Gertie, "digging" furiously to escape this safe house.
The sound shifted slightly, and Gertie gave several soft meows. She moved to the other side of the double front door, then tried the side door, as well.
"Pssst!" I whispered across the dark room. Her efforts were ruining my rest.
She paused for a moment, then resumed scratching.
And I? I lay still and marveled. Our obese house cat, so serene during the day, displayed such desperation at night! What did she want? Why did she dig?
She kept at it for what felt like hours. Finally, I retreated to the silence of my bedroom. I'd considered squirting her with water. I'd even tossed a poorly-aimed pillow her way. But I just couldn't fight any harder. The moon filtered in, its luminosity diffused by the day's smoky haze. Outside, the grass and trees seemed to glow. If I were Gertie, I'd strive toward that beauty, too ... even if it put me in danger.
And so I left her to it -- to her quiet, unobserved struggle. She must have known it was futile; she'd never even extended her claws. Yet there she sat, long after I left, expressing an urge deeper than her domesticity, truer than her overweight state, stronger than her desire for safety.
Oh, how deeply I could relate. Perhaps you can, too.
On the surface, my life bends to certain themes. Nurture. Comfort. Peace. Farther down, my silent needs lie. Adventure. Exploration. Full, freedom-filled life. When the moon rises and the haze hangs just right, these needs arise. They stir my soul, driving me to dreams and to action that surprise even me. Impatient, I push at the boundaries of my danger-free life. Like Gertie, my truest self drives me to just get outside.
And God, Who created this truest self in the first place, must smiles. He beckons me beyond, rather than imprisons me within, my four walls. He calls me forward into the mystery of dependence upon Him instead of my skills. He calls me into faith, into life.
I wonder how many nights Gertie visits those tempting glass doors. I wonder what would happen if they opened, and she could step outside. Would she?
Would you?
And will I? We've got the Maker of all nature, the Upholder of eternity on our side, which means there's nowhere really outside His protection. But still, the world seems so wide. Excitement still surges each time I decide. I take one step, and then two, and with my great Maker, I smile. I'm anxious to see what I'll find.
