To my horror, I recently found one of our cats killed, ran over by a vehicle. I’d gone out unusually early for my daily walk, and knew instantly that the dead weight in the road ahead was our cat. I was mortified and started bawling like a calf that lost her mother and was starving and scared.
I carried the cat back to the house and buried it with tears blurring my vision. The entire rest of the day, my emotions were scattered. I broke out crying on a whiff of a memory, and there were many good memories.
It was the image of the dead cat that stuck in my brain. I tried to shake it. I begged God to take it away—when I wasn’t throwing anger God’s way—why couldn’t God keep the cat safe?
My writing projects came to a screeching halt. They required inspiration, devotion, intuition, knowledge, none of which could be found in the immensity of grief that poured into my soul.
I started cleaning out closets. Literally. I sorted through items that had been stuffed into closets over the past few years. Piles accumulated. A pile to give a way, a pile to recycle, a pile to throw away, a pile to find a better location for.
I decided to look at pictures of the cat. It was easy. I had a million pictures. I took them when the cat was cute, entertaining, compassionate, every second. The bad image started to fade.
The next morning, I heard the thought, “Cheryl, it’s time to go back to your writing, you can do it.”
My conscience was struck. That thought was exactly what my cat told me. Was this the new form of the cat? Or, had it always been the cat’s form? Because the furry form I’d typically attached to the cat was gone?
Answers to those questions didn’t matter. The feeling of all-presence rubbed itself on me and I felt at peace.