Resistance is Futile

The source of my insomnia is encased in a cream and black fur coat and has lovely blue eyes. My husband has no sympathy for my predicament, he tells me to simply push the cat off the bed if she is annoying me. . This is an impossibility. Even in sleep, I cow tow to her every wish, adjusting my sleeping form to maximize her comfort.

We always start out well; she comes to bed, kneads on my forearm for a while and then cuddles next to me. Inevitably, at the precise moment that I am falling into the deep REM sleep I need so badly, she decides to move, lick my face (or worse, my eyeball) with her raspy tongue or jump on top of me and practice her tap dancing. We finally come to an agreement that she needs to let me return to sleep; she kneads on my forearm, purrs for a while and then plops down beside me once again. This ritual is repeated several times during the night.

We could shut the door and forbid her access to the bedroom but she is a willful little thing and clawing, scratching and howling are not beneath her. Besides, her two furry partners in crime would only come to her assistance and join the riot outside the bedroom. She also knows how to get me out of bed by tossing precious knick-knacks off coffee tables or tossing objects off the counter in the guest bathroom if she is annoyed.

Everyone who has ever been servant to a cat knows one thing, when they are exerting their will, resistance is futile. In our case, resistance is not only futile, it is pointless-we live with three felines. That is more mind control than I am capable of fighting.

On those days I appear a little worn out, eyes puffy and demeanor a bit confused. When, despite my best efforts, there are errant bits of cat hair on my best black blazer, I am sure I can hear the whispers as I pass, "Ah poor thing, she must have a cat at her house."

Woulda, Shoulda, Coulda

Life rolls by at lightning speed and opportunities fly by like objects blown in a hurricane. That good deed I meant to do, the expression of thanks all end up as good intentions rather than acts completed. I often feel that twinge of regret that reminds me that I allowed an opportune moment to slip by me. This time it was more than a twinge, it was an onslaught of full-fledged grief.

We moved into our new house 18 months ago. We met some of the neighbors but some kept to themselves. I met the pets of the little girl from the house down the street before I met her. Her two Siamese mix cats resembled our own felines. Her cats loved to hang out by our bird feeder and take a drink from our little pond and waterfall.

I never met her dad.. We spoke twice. Once when his dog got into my back yard and once, when my husband was ill and I was trying to shovel myself out of over a foot of new Christmas snow. He saw me struggling and arrived at my driveway with his snow blower. It had been a rough holiday, my husbands health was only one of the traumas we suffered this past December. I was at the end of my rope and this man with his snow blower was the best Christmas present I received. I thanked him tearfully and told him how much his act of kindness meant to me. I vowed to myself that I would take some cookies or other Christmas goodies to the house as a thank you. I meant well, I thought about doing something to show my thanks but life intervened, my husband still struggled with his health and my good intentions remained only intentions.

Fast forward to February and I learn that this man and his daughter are going to lose their home. One week I wave to the little girl as she waits for the school bus and rescue her cat from our tree and the next day their house is closed up and there is a foreclosure notice on the door.

My heart was pierced and I was desolate. I can't imagine what that man must have been going through in December. He must have already been behind with his mortgage and worrying about his home. In the middle of his problems, he took a moment to help a neighbor, to show a kindness. I thanked him for his kindness but went no further than that. I spent several days a week in ministry but I did not follow through on an opportunity to show the love of Christ to my neighbor.

Every day the house down the street stands in silent rebuke. The notice on the door reminds me that lives once lived there; dreams once dreamed there are gone. It stands empty of life and hope and it is a daily reminder that those moments the Lord gives us are too precious to waste. It is the silent witness to my lack of obedience and love. It stands on my street and reminds me that "woulda, shoulda, coulda are never words that should be used in God's economy.