My cat has always enjoyed the freedom of coming and going as she pleases. Although she spends a fair amount of time snuggled in the comfort of the indoors, she prefers spending most of her waking hours outside – even if it is just to sit in the sun.
Every once in a while, something scares her and she bolts through her kitty door (which is attached to one of my bedroom windows) and either hides on the top of the refrigerator or growls from behind the safety of a window. I usually find her antics quite amusing and do my best to console her and ensure her safety.
Last night, however, scared me. She frantically bolted inside, and seconds later raced right back outside as if she had boldly made up her mind about something. The moment she passed through her kitty door, I heard hissing and growling. In the next second, the scene grew eerily quiet. Fear crept through my body.
I peeked out of the tiny window and called her name, but the darkness and silence gave no hints as to what transpired. Armed with worry and a flashlight, I searched high and low for my little girl, but saw and heard nothing.
I went back to bed, praying God would send her home – and hoping I would not find her lifeless body when the sun came up.
I have fallen asleep before worried with no answer to my pleading prayer for her safe return. She has been out all night on occasion. Oftentimes, she came home when her belly rumbled, waking me in her sweet way, begging me to feed her. One time, I found her trapped in a neighbor’s critter trap that they had set for sneaky pests invading their attic. But . . . still . . . a momma worries.
On this night, she came home before I fell asleep. With a sigh of relief, I closed my eyes, thanking God for her safe return. Just as the two of us drifted off to sleep, I heard what sounded like Ray Ray running through her kitty door. But when I looked up, she still lay beside me. We both stared in the direction of the door. I saw nothing, but Ray Ray growled. Her tone sounded ominous and scared.
I locked the door and lowered the blinds to keep Ray Ray safely inside and to keep whatever haunted her outside. She kept vigil close by my side and we both finally drifted off to sleep.
Then, I heard her attempting to peak through the blinds and get to her door. Whatever fear gripped her in the night faded with the coming of a new day.
I wanted to keep her inside – safe – with me. She wanted to go outside, feeling safe and bold once again. She won, as she always does, and I let her out. How could I keep such a tight rein on a creature used to such freedom?
I wanted to, and I could have, made her stay inside, but I knew it would not be fair to her.
Later in the morning, I spent some time sitting outside with my Bible and a cup of coffee. I watched her enjoying her freedom and relished in the fact that, even though she enjoys her freedom, she also likes to stay close to me. I may not always know where she is, but she always seems to know where I am.
I leaned on the deck and stared out across the property, thinking of a lot of things – mostly about memories and how we attach so much importance to places and things because of the memories they hold and how difficult it is to let them go.
This led me to think of a specific memory as I looked across this part of the yard. That little hill on the side of the house used to be a gravel road and it used to be steeper. I remembered how much I loved riding my bike as fast as I could down that path.
One day, I road bikes with my sister and cousin. I remember being at the top of the hill. The next thing I remember, I woke up on my dad’s lap. My sister and cousin stood there staring at me.
I had no memory of the fall and felt no pain so as soon as I woke up and learned what happened, I asked my dad if I could go back out and play again. My dad said OKAY. My sister, on the other hand, refused to let me get back on my bike.
As I contemplated this memory, I thought about my experience with Ray Ray the night before. I wanted so desperately to hold her and keep her safely inside. Instead, I let her go outside because I knew that was what she wanted, what would make her happy. I was pretty certain that the threat from the night was gone, but I could not control whatever other threats lurked out there. However, she would be miserable if I tried to hold on too tight.
I wondered if my dad was terrified of letting me go. Was it difficult for him to tell me yes when I asked to leave the safety of his lap to go back outside to play? Would he have rather kept me close?
Those were different times. We didn’t wear helmets and weren’t well versed on concussions. We didn’t have cable or internet or home video games to occupy our time. We played outside and we got hurt. We spit on open wounds to clean them and rubbed mud on them to stop the bleeding. When there was no visible sign of significant injury, we were encouraged to walk it off.
I was certain that whatever happened to cause my accident would not happen again. I had ridden the same way on the same path countless times before without incident. But it could have. Anything could have happened, which is why my older sister forbade me from resuming my ride, keeping me safe by refusing to play with me anymore.
On the surface, my dad may have seemed detached or unaffectionate by the fact that he didn’t take me to the doctor and let me run off to play again so quickly after getting knocked unconscious. But the truth is, he protected and loved me.
Whenever my sister called for him after my fall, he carried me back into the house. He could have left me laying there, waiting for me to wake up.
He could have laid me down on the couch or my bed, but he held me in his arms instead where I stayed until I came to. I woke up in his embrace.
When I awoke and asked to go back outside, he could have said no. Instead, he let me go. I think my dad was scared. I think he would have rather kept me close. I think he saw my lack of fear as a good thing, wanting to nurture my love for nature and adventure rather than chance projecting his fear onto me and possibly stifling my youthful energy and imagination.
He knew I could get hurt again, but still, he let me go.
As my rambling thoughts tend to do, this memory got me thinking about God.
People often ask why God allows bad things to happen. Most of the time, when someone asks this, they are in the throes of grief and do not really want an answer. To even attempt to answer such a vast question at such a fragile time would be futile and cruel.
Still, we do often try to give theologically sound answers:
- Sin
- Freedom
There is a lot of theological explanations that can go into either category, but, again, none of our theology can make sense out of that which causes us so much heartbreak and tears.
Then I think of how much God loves us – so much so that He is willing to let us go even when He would rather hold us close and keep us safe.
He knows a wild animal could attack us or a stray rock could get caught in the spoke of a wheel and throw us off. But to keep us from living would keep us from enjoying the sunshine or the pleasure of riding bikes with our friends.
He loves us enough to let us go.
Now, I don’t believe that God allows bad things to happen. I believe in that sound theology. Still, if I were to give a simplistic answer to a hugely profound and unanswerable question, I would say that he allows bad things to happen because he loves us.
That makes absolutely no sense until I consider why I would let my cat go back outside after some night creature terrorized her or why my dad would let me go back outside and play after getting knocked unconscious or why any parent would ever let any child go anywhere without them tethered to their side.
We do what we do because we love.
Which makes me think of one of my favorite Bon Jovi songs:
TRA.Perspective 
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