Some of us have wandering spirits deep inside our depths. For many, life is a quest for meaning, belonging, and most of all, one long occasion to experience what feels like the occasional presence of God. And then there's the way my cat illustrates amazing grace.
Let me rewind six years.
Picture a four year old girl calling her daddy one afternoon. The girl is my daughter; the daddy is me.
"Daddy," she begins in a sing-songy-I-want-something voice, "Miss Judy has some new kittens-"
"No," the mean daddy interrupts in a not-so-sing-songy-you-can't-have-one voice.
"But Daddy," she continues persistently as she is known to do, "He can stay outside and we'll take care of him and feed him-"
"No, honey," the daddy says as his voice begins to weaken. "He might run away or-"
I had nothing. The cat's non-existence had nothing to do with my little girl. It had to do with my own fears. I gave in. And thus came "Cowboy" into our lives.
Three weeks later, he ran away, and I was angry. We all got attached to him quickly. He came back the next day. Over the next few years, other than getting hit by a car, falling out of a tree, getting into a fight with a possum, and almost dying from a bladder infection, everything was just fine.
Until we moved to Houston.
Two weeks after we brought him down, he ran away. This time for good.
I can't say as I blamed him. The wandering spirit inside has long tempted me to explore new lands. I need new challenges, new opportunities, and new birds to kill just like every other wandering spirit out there.
There seems to be a wanderlust category for churchgoers who get tired of one place and decide to go to another ever-so-often. Can't blame them either, especially since I have never been a part of a congregation for more than a decade. But as I get older, I am starting to see the appeal of living/loving a place and calling it home in all of its simplicity.
Maybe that is what Jesus had in mind when he told the story of the prodigal son who had to go off wandering for a while, at first carousing with women covered in cheap perfume, eventually reduced to the company of pigs and eating pig food. Hopefully most of us come to our senses, just like the prodigal son. That's the way these stories are supposed to end.
We knew when we moved to Houston earlier this year that we were coming back to a home we loved when we ministered with a small congregation in West Texas. Although Houston and West Texas could not be farther apart in landscape or culture, the churches are amazingly similar. Small, authentic, family. Coming to Houston was like coming home.
Except for our cat.
He lasted two weeks in the big city, long enough for us to put a red tag on his collar with my cell phone number. But evidently he did not feel as comfortable in Houston as we immediately did. Fuzzball didn't even ask for his share of the inheritance. Just up and left one day. That was back in May, and we were heartbroken that Cowboy was gone.
Slowly in the following weeks we began to discard evidences of his fading presence. We got rid of the kennel on the back porch... a foodbowl... a blanket... then the food...
The little girl from earlier in the story started talking about a kitten, or maybe a hamster she could keep in her room. The latest was wanting to raise crawfish. I could tell she was getting desperate.
So last week I agreed to go start looking for a new kitten. No promises, mind you. But she wore me down with her persistent passion. We were just about to go start our quest for the newest addition to our family.
And then came the voicemail yesterday afternoon.
I was leaving the hospital after visiting a family I have quickly come to adore. I always turn off my phone when making a visit, so as I entered the elevator, I turned it back on. As I walked outside to get on my bike and ride home, I stopped dead in my tracks as I listened to the message. Word-for-word, here it is:
"Hi, Jeff, my name is K___________. I think your cat's over here in our back yard. We're feeding him. I read his tags and saw your phone number. I don't know if he's an outdoor cat and has free roam, or if you want me to try and hold him until you come over." The rest of the message was her phone number and address.
I thought that it must be a joke or a dream. I dialed her number, told her who I was, and then started with the questions. Flabbergasted. Oh my gosh. It's been four months! She was just as astounded. I could not wait to get home.
I roared into our complex, got off my bike, and ran upstairs to find my wife and two offspring playing a game.
"Hit pause," I demanded. They did. "Change of plans for the evening, you guys."
"What?"
"We're going to go pick up Cowboy."
The little girl from earlier in the story who is now a young woman was four years old all over again. She slapped her hand to her open mouth and tears welled up in her eyes. My wife's eyes were the size of plates. Cole just looked shocked.
Off we went to pick up Cowboy.
On the way over, I could not help thinking about the morning's worship at Bering and the ways we are committing to being a church who welcomes those who have wandered away from the church, but who still long for God. Strange coincidence, to be sure, but I could not resist the comparison. So much of what has come to represent "the church" in America either looks like a stadium concert on one end of the continuum, or a rhetoric of out-of-touch-book-burning lunatics on the other. And while there are churches here and there who just want to be a simple community of faith who loves God and one another, they seem to be getting harder to find. Sorry if that sounds nihilistic. But it's the truth as I see it.
What is the church going to do in this generation to welcome home those prodigal Christians who still love God and the faithful ministry of Christ, but who view the church as nothing more than an irrational talking head that has almost nothing to do with the concerns of those who lost faith that God's people could ever gather together without fighting over the color of the carpet? It is probably a safe bet that if we could ever get them to come home, God would be waiting on the porch for them with a robe and a ring with a steak already on the grill.
That's what I was thinking about as we rushed a half-a-mile down our street to pick up our prodigal cat. I could not wait to welcome him home. We drove up. The young lady met us at her garage. Her husband came out. We all shook hands and exchanged names. They walked us into their back porch.
And there he was. Ten pounds lighter, but unmistakably Cowboy.
I was astonished.
We all sat on the ground. He was a little skittish at first. But then he walked up, rubbed up against us, and seemed relieved. I picked him up. His purr was like a sigh. We all thanked the young couple for calling. Then we went home.
Last night, as Cowboy slept in my lap down in my son's room, I thought about the way he illustrated to me--in a corny way, mind you--the idea that he once was lost, but now he's found. And I swore I could have smelled cheap perfume, and the slightest hint of pig food.
