Carried Away

I was maybe seven or eight when, while wandering the aisles of the library, I found a book with an amazing title: “The House of Thirty Cats.”  My heart quickened as I imagined a house inhabited by thirty cats.  I checked the book out and loved it.  It gave me a beautiful dream for my future: I’d be a writer in a house filled with at least thirty cats.  Then I grew up and discovered that having that many cats wasn’t so much a dream as it was a psychological disorder called hoarding.  Still, I love the book, especially this quote: 

“When she was little, she was always hoping to find a magic place.  Now she knew she’d never come upon a stone tower rising unexpectedly in the woods.  But this house of cats was.  It existed.  And any place where so many cats lived just had to be wondersome.” 

Wondersome.  That’s the exact word I would choose to describe our life with our three boys.  They have their own kind of magic—each cat has a completely unique personality that endlessly entertains Monty and me.  Dr. Phil says that everyone has a set of life rules that govern their behavior.  In our “house of cats,” we’ve certainly found that to be true—each one of our boys has their own distinctive set of rules that they live by:

Mackin’s rules for living:

• Life is terrifying. Approach everyone and everything—a stray sock, a remote control, your brother—with extreme caution.
• When life gets too scary, shut your eyes, hunker down, and freeze. Back out of the room if necessary, and pray you go unnoticed.
• If at all possible, construct a fort out of whatever materials are at hand. Hide in it.
• It’s more important to be pretty than smart.
• Choose one person to love, and devote yourself completely to that person.

Seamus’s rules for living:

• Treat the world as your kingdom and yourself as the king. Everyone else in your kingdom—person or cat—is a mere peasant and should be treated as such.
• Never tolerate a baby brother who thinks he can outsmart, outrun, or out-eat you. If he annoys you, immediately let him know by chasing him.  Show no mercy.
• Lie on your back and stare at the ceiling. Pretend to see things others can’t; it annoys them.
• Never turn down a treat or a nap.
• If you’re beautiful, own it. Strut into the room, stop for a moment, and let people appreciate the view. 

Carrick’s rules for living:

• Size doesn’t matter. If you’re small, act like you’re as big as everyone else in the room.
• If you see something shiny, steal it.
• If you’re the baby of the family, you’re entitled to everything you could possibly want.
• Being adorable covers a multitude of sins. Rub against ankles, make sweet little chirping noises, let people pet your fuzzy belly, and your naughty behavior will be instantly forgotten.
• Love everyone, equally, even the brother who very clearly cannot tolerate you.

Because each cat has such a unique approach to life, we’ve learned that we have to deal with them in different ways.  Mackin is our high maintenance cat.  Life is scary for him—every day he has to relearn what he learned the day before: who can be trusted, what places are safe for him, and which one of his brothers he can play with without getting his ears boxed.  (only Carrick)  I’ve spent four years trying to teach him not to be afraid.  When he’s dumbstruck by fear because he hears a lawn mower or sees me in a hat and sunglasses, I talk to him or take off the hat and glasses to reassure him that it’s me and not a cat napper.  I celebrate his every victory—when he finally figured out what treats were, I did a little Irish jig while I told him again and again how smart he was.  He tries so hard to keep up with his brothers that my heart aches for him.  When they find a moth to hunt, he goes and finds his favorite toy.  When they drink out of the sink, he waits until they’re done, then licks the drain.  He sees them jump up on counters, and he looks so wistful.  So I encourage him to jump, and sometimes he does.  Other times, he acts like he’s never done it before.  Yesterday, I picked him up and put him on the counter and said, “Oh, Mackin.  How many times do we have to go through this before you learn?”

I heard myself say those words and instantly thought of the way God deals with me, one of His more high maintenance children.  I can’t even count the number of times that He must have said to me, “Renee, how many times do we have to go through this?  When will you learn?”  He says it with compassion, not condemnation.   And I do eventually learn.  Still, I’ll struggle with a problem, trying with everything I have to solve it until I hear Him—“Why are you trying so hard to do this by yourself when you don’t have to?”  I feel my soul light up in response, reminded of one of my favorite passages of Scripture: “Come to me.  Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest.  Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it.  Learn the unforced rhythms of grace.  I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you.  Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.” (Matt. 11:28b-30, from The Message)  So I try again, this time with God, and together we have a victory that often requires a celebratory Irish jig.

God has also shown me that He is the only One who can calm my fears—and He’s shown me that by using my boys.  Each one has very different fears, and we’ve learned over the years how to calm them.  Like me, Seamus has asthma.  He’s usually fearless, but when he gets a coughing spell and can’t catch his breath, he looks at me the whole time, completely panic-stricken, with tears leaking out of his eyes.  I put my hand on his back and talk to him until his breathing is more even, then I carry him into the bathroom and give him a full glass of water in his favorite china cup.  By the time his water’s gone, so is his fear.  Carrick is afraid of loud noises.  When he hears a car backfire, for instance, he runs downstairs and hides.  Monty or I will go find him and hold him close until he calms down.  And then there’s Mackin who, like me, requires constant reassurance.  Sometimes, I can calm him by talking to him, but usually Monty has to do it.  He picks Mackin up, carries him around, and Mackin eventually falls asleep in Monty’s arms.

We’ve learned that when all else fails, we can calm the boys by carrying them.  When my fears arise, and I’m panic-stricken like Seamus, God carries me through it.  I see this picture of God’s love with Carrick, especially.  Carrick does everything at full speed.  He runs in laps around the house, which gets him in trouble when he goes flying by Seamus, again and again.  So I’ll grab him in the middle of one of his laps and hold him close, rocking him while I talk to him—usually saying something along the lines of “Calm down, little one.  Relax.  I’ve got you.”  And though I’m certainly not running around the house like Carrick, my mind is always running around and around with questions—what if?  But why?  How can I?  Until God says to me, “Calm down, little one.  I’ve got you.  Let me carry you.”

God carries me.  With infinite patience and love, He carries me.  He always has: even when I didn’t know it, He was carrying me.  When I was so afraid that I couldn’t even leave my house, He calmed my fears and carried me back into the world.  When I felt so broken that I was ready to give up on life, He gathered my broken pieces and carried me to a place of hope.  When I was so lost that I couldn’t find the light I used to believe in, He carried me to the brightest light I’d ever known.  When He said, “Get away with me and you’ll recover your life,” (from the verse I quoted earlier) I wanted to.  With every beat of my broken heart, I wanted to.  But I was too scared to do it on my own.  I had to let go of what I thought could save me and let Him carry me instead.  And that’s how I try to live now—I let go and let Him.

I think about the love I have for my boys—there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for them, nothing that could ever change my love for them.  And yet, my love for my boys isn’t even a fraction of the love God has for me.  His kind of love is beyond my comprehension.  It’s undeserved.  It’s redemptive.  It’s . . . wondersome.  Far more wondersome, even, than a house of thirty cats.