Calico teardrops

This week I have cried to the Lord.  Our cat has gone from apparently healthy last Friday, to having a runny nose on Saturday, then proceeding through days without eating or drinking, except for whatever water or broth we managed to feed her through a syringe.  She’s little but not young, and I’ve wondered if this fourteenth year of her little calico life would be her last.  Yet mid-week brought some unusual happenings.  First, a friend called.  This is a new friend with whom I’ve studied just this semester, and this being our first phone conversation, my ears were perked especially alert.  I told my friend about our cat situation, and she offered some words of direction.  What exactly she said, I don’t remember, but a calming sensation accompanied her words.  As she talked of how people relate to animals, all the while my worry for our cat was seeming to subside a bit.  It was simple conversation that the Lord used to bring peace.  Secondly, the veterinary office that had been so wonderfully caring on Monday didn’t call me back on Tuesday.  They were helpful to afford us an appointment in their office and twice later answered our phone calls with remarkable caring.  The third call, though, they never returned.  And whereas ordinarily I might be frustrated by that, actually this time I was relieved.  I considered it an answer to prayer.  Fearing this week that we might have to decide for the vet to end the life of this little cat that had become so frail, I had asked the Lord to take that decision from me.  Now it seemed He was doing just that.  The unreturned call was uncharacteristic for this office.  No matter their reason, my husband and I had done what we could, and it was time to sit still.  I soon found the tension in my shoulders starting to melt away.  The swirl of emotions began to slow.  We sat with this little cat and hoped to soothe her troubles, and she did survive the night, though her body was fragile.  I kept praying for the Lord to save her from pain.  With each new syringe of broth, she tried to turn her head in avoidance, her innards audibly groaning the digestion.  In amazement yesterday morning, my husband awoke to find Toni actually purring.  Last night we found her lying in a favorite cardboard box that she'd gained enough energy to hop into.  This morning she takes a nap underneath the Christmas tree, finding contentment in her own silent way, just like old times.  She’s taking more and more sips of water and even some crunchy bites of catfood.  And while this has been a story about a cat, on a broader scale it's about how God comforts the cries of His children.  He knows, He sees, and He hears and touches.  And I love Him for speaking into these straits that have felt especially dire to me this week.