Does God care about a lost cat?

When Jenny and I got married over 17 years ago, I inherited two cats. She'd had them since they were kittens, and they were dear to her. I wasn't a cat person at the time, but I'll confess, they grew on me.

One of them, Cole, was mostly an outdoor cat. He'd spend the day roaming and come back inside in the evening. A few years into our marriage, he didn't come back.

By the next morning Jenny was worried. We walked the neighborhood that afternoon calling his name, and again on day three. By day four his picture was taped to telephone poles and trees up and down the street. After six or seven days, Jenny finally faced what we both assumed: Cole was gone. It was a heavy week. She loved that cat.

Once she agreed it wasn't helpful to keep looking, I made a quiet decision. I wasn't going to bring Cole up again. My thinking was simple: the less I mentioned him, the faster she'd move on and life would get back to normal.

The drive home from Tioga County

About a month later we spent a weekend at our cabin in Tioga County. It was a great weekend, and the cat hadn't come up in weeks. As far as I was concerned, that chapter was closed.

The drive home is about three and a half hours. It was getting close to 11 PM, Jenny had dozed off in the passenger seat, and I was alone with my thoughts on the highway. I did what I often do on long drives and started praying, thanking God for my life, our marriage, the weekend, and all the blessings I have. Then I asked if there was anything He wanted me to know, and tried to be quiet long enough to listen.

I didn't even get the sentence out. A thought came into my heart and mind, fully formed: You're going to find the cat at home.

I dismissed it. Surely that was my own mind wandering, and surely the God of the universe wasn't talking to me about a cat. So I asked again. Before I finished, the same message came back, and this time it filled me with a force and emotion I can hardly describe: You're going to find the cat tomorrow. The words were only part of it. The whole thought was confirmed somewhere deep in my soul.

At this point I wondered if I was going crazy, so I asked a third time. Before I could even start, the thought bulldozed everything else in my head. It was a very strange moment.

Eventually I stopped testing it. I thanked God, a little sheepishly, for letting me know we'd find the cat, with plenty of skepticism still sitting in the back of my mind. Then I asked if there was anything else He wanted me to know.

You need to wake Jenny up and tell her.

The part I didn't want to do

This was a different kind of request. I had sworn to myself not to bring the cat up, because I didn't want Jenny back in that grief. Waking her up on the highway to tell her God said we'd find her cat, a month after we'd given up, was out of the question.

So I argued. "Is this really you? Why?" The answer came back just as strong: wake her up. I asked again and got the same answer. The third time, I held my breath, gently woke her, apologized in advance for how insane I was about to sound, and told her.

I don't remember exactly how she responded. I think in her sleepiness it was something close to "okay." But I knew I'd done what I was asked.

When we got home, I tore the house apart looking for Cole. Then I went out front and back, calling his name in a high-pitched whisper so I wouldn't wake the neighbors. There was no sign of him. Jenny was already in bed, and I was very aware that I looked like a crazy person hunting for a cat that had been gone for over a month.

The next morning I bounded down the stairs thinking maybe, just maybe. Still no Cole. We went off to church, and somewhere in the morning I settled into the disappointment. I'd made the whole thing up in my own head, and I felt like an idiot.

Bedroom number three

After lunch I got dressed for my men's soccer league and headed out. Driving down our street, I noticed a neighbor's house was for sale, with an open house going on and an agent sitting inside. Being in real estate, I couldn't help myself. I pulled over for a quick run-through.

I said hi to the agent, told him I was just a nosy neighbor, and walked the first floor. Then I went upstairs: bedroom one, bedroom two, bedroom three. As I was pulling the door shut on the third bedroom, I heard something. I looked back in, noticed a closet I'd missed, and opened it. There was Cole.

He looked like he hadn't eaten in weeks and was on his last legs. I scooped him up, yelled something at the very confused agent on my way out, and ran up the street to our house. When I called Jenny with the news, she couldn't believe it.

We've thought a lot since about how he ended up there, and our best guess is the move. The family had been moving out, with movers going in and out and the doors propped open. Somewhere along the way Cole must have wandered in and tucked himself into what felt like a safe spot at the back of that closet. At some point someone likely popped in, closed the door without seeing him, and there he stayed for however long it was until I showed up.

We nursed Cole back to health, and he lived to the ripe old age of 18.

What I hold onto

I've felt God's presence many times since: in prayer and worship, in circumstances, and in answers to prayer that were far more than coincidence. But I don't know that I've ever felt Him communicate with me as forcefully as He did that night in the truck.

To be clear, that kind of hearing from God isn't a normal part of my relationship with Him. Most days it's much quieter. That's part of why I come back to this story so often, especially in seasons when I find myself doubting His sovereignty.

What makes it undeniable to me is the part I resisted most. If I'd kept that message to myself, I could probably talk myself out of it by now. Because He had me wake Jenny up, there's a witness. She remembers that moment on the highway, and to this day she can tell you about it.

I'm not pushing this on you, I'm just challenging you to consider that the same God who speaks into the important, heavy, and joyful things of our lives might also care enough to speak into the little ones, like a hungry cat in a neighbor's closet.