It's
not easy to feed a cat when you are on welfare; at least that's the way it was
only eight years after the end of World War II. But, it was a stray, and knew how to forage,
so I convinced mother to let me give it try.
That
stray cat knew that I loved him, and he loved me back. I think I named him Fluffy, but I am not
quite sure. That was a long time ago,
and Fluffy was a common name for soft, cute, cuddly creatures like cats. But, I will now remember him as Fluffy. He was fluffy, with big black and white swirly
spots. Just the kind of cat a lonesome
kid could call his best friend.
Exploring
little patches of voluntary trees and weeds with Fluffy was pleasant. He could follow as good as any dog. Then came the first week of school. Mothers and teachers did not allow cats to go
to school. It was a rule hard for me and
Fluffy to accept.
Disaster
struck not more than a few weeks after the start of school. I came home to find Fluffy in a cardboard box
curled up on a towel. Mother told me he
was sick with something. So sick that all
he could do at the sight of me was to raise a small weak meow from a wobbly
head. I broke down.
My
mother was a Christian and prayer warrior, and I believed in Jesus too. So I began the kind of intercessory prayer
known only to children with unblemished faith.
Late that night I fell asleep from exhaustion. The next morning, Fluffy was
unresponsive.
Through
sobs and tears I told mother that I wanted to give him a Christian burial. He was my cat, and I wanted to be sure he was
laid to rest in a proper manner.
Our
tiny rented house built on concrete blocks was situated over an ancient
alluvial sand deposit. There was the remnant
of an old farm fence in the backyard. I
decided that the best of the old posts would make a suitable grave marker.
We
did not own a shovel. So, with bare
hands, I dug deep into the cool sand next to the post, and laid Fluffy to rest. I prayed over him, covered him with sand, and
raced off to school. I don't suppose I heard
much of what the teacher said that day.
For
weeks after, I would visit Fluffy's fence post, say a few things to him, and
hoped that he was happy. Over time my
visits were less frequent. Life moved
on.
Then
came the first hints of winter. Winter's
are cold and windy in northwestern
Illinois, and I began to think about how cold it would be for Fluffy. So, I considered a solution. Since our little house was built on blocks
with a sandy crawlspace beneath, I would undertake (no pun intended) to
transfer Fluffy from outside to inside.
You
have to wait for just the right time to do something of that significance. But I did it, and to my delight, I found
Fluffy to be in about the same condition as when he was first interned. In fact, after bushing the sand off of him,
he looked good enough to come back to life.
Back
to life! By burying him sheltered under the house, he would stand
a good chance of coming back to life!
So, I buried him directly under where I slept at night. That way, I could pray for him, and if God
brought him back to life during the middle of the night I could hear him, and
take care of him.
After
a few days of praying with no results, I decided the best thing to do was to
slip into the crawlspace, and inspect Fluffy.
After all, he might be alive by now, and finding it difficult to dig out
of his shallow grave. But when I
uncovered him, there was no sign of life.
So, I covered him up, and kept hoping and praying. I knew the story of Lazarus from Sunday
School, and there was no doubt in my mind that God could raise the dead.
I
don't recall exactly how many times I repeated the process, but I clearly
recall that on the final attempt to bring Fluffy back to life he no longer
looked so well. In fact, each time I exhumed
him he looked a little worse for the wear.
The final time he was in such bad shape that I came to the conclusion
that God was not going to answer my prayers.
And, to tell the truth, by then I had grown weary of it all, and
accepted Fluffy's fate with relief.
In
the spring, we moved to a house on an adjacent lot, and I decided that Fluffly
was better off staying where he was. If
my mother ever knew my secret she did not let on, but knowing my mother if she had
known I would surely have heard about it!
All
this is true, and even though it happened many decades ago, there is a fresh
and powerful lesson to be learned from the story of my dead cat.
In
the writings of the Apostle Paul we read,
"Brethren, I do not regard myself as having laid hold of it yet; but one
thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and reaching forward to what lies
ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in
Christ Jesus. Let us therefore, as many as are perfect , have this attitude;
and if in anything you have a different attitude, God will reveal that also to
you;" (Philippians 3:13-15).
Is
there is something, some place or someone in your life that resembles my dead cat? If so, take a lesson - forget it and move
forward. It is the "perfect"
remedy for the futility of holding on to that which is dead, gone, and never
coming back no matter how much it was once loved.
