Carry Me

Although I haven’t mentioned Fitz, my cat, in a while, don’t worry.  He’s still here.  Not only is he now an official adult at one year old, but we have also officially been roommates for a year.  He has matured from a teeny, tiny little kitten into a hefty, plump, and rotund cat.  With all the changes going on in the world and with me personally, I forgot that it was time for his annual shots.  The vet sent a friendly e-mail reminder and a postcard.  I called and scheduled his appointment.  Then my prep work had to begin.

I heard horror stories from other cat owners about vet time before I ever adopted a cat.  One owner said that the cat hides under the bed every time the carrier comes out.  The cat knows the carrier means doctor.  Doctor means shots, and the cat is not going.  With that in mind, I started early with minimizing anxiety around the carrier.  The carrier sits on the floor in the closet year-round.  Fitz can freely jump in and out of it.  Sometimes, he naps in it.  Other times, he just pokes his head in and out to see if I’m paying attention to him.

As the appointment gets closer, the carrier comes out of the closet.  I put it at the foot of the bed.  He happily plays in and around it.  He even bats it around to see how far he can move it.  He is silly and playful.  On appointment day, I place the carrier up on the bench that sits at the foot of the bed.  Fitz is fine with the movement.  He’s even fine with me putting him in the carrier and zipping it up.  He remains quiet while I move the carrier into the car.  He adjusts himself to get comfortable for the ride.  I feel confident that the planning has worked.  I start the car and begin the journey to the vet.  That’s when the bottom falls out.

Fitz begins to cry and sing the song of cats of old.  It’s a belly cry that is loud and piercing.  At first, I speak gently to him.  I tell him that he’s okay.  I reassure him that it will be a short ride.  I try to shush him.  Ya’ll nothing worked.  So, I put on some music and rode it out.  Thankfully, the vet isn’t that far away.  His appointment was easy breezy, lemon squeezy.  They whisked him away from my car and brought him back.  I didn’t have to move a muscle. 

Fifteen minutes later, we were on our way back home.  I had hoped that he would sing a new song on the way home or even just quietly meditate on what had happened to him in that room.  I suppose my first hope came true.  He sang a different tune.  He was NOT pleased with his situation and made sure that I knew about it.  His antics kicked up a notch.  Since I was ignoring him, he would fight his way out of that carrier.  It was an interesting ride home to say the least.  But we both made it home in one piece and regained some peace.

How often do I act like this sweet cat of mine when it comes to dealing with life?  When God places opportunities near and around me that are meant to carry me to new places, I’m comfortable with sticking myself in and out of them.  I don’t have to be fully committed to the situation.  I can play around with it.  The door is open.  And then when God asks me to commit to the opportunity…when that opportunity has the ability to carry me to the place that I need to be…I sing my song of trouble.  I feel trapped.  I complain throughout the journey.

Even after I’ve been given medicine from God that will protect me from hurt, harm, and danger, I protest.  I need this direction from God, but my little crazy self will kick, scream, and buck.  Until I make it back to a familiar location.  Until I return to what’s comfortable for me.  Recently, I made up my mind to fully trust God.  I am becoming comfortable with things that are uncomfortable.  I’m trusting that He’s carrying me exactly where I need to be.  #wepreach