Sleeping With Turkeys

            A lovely holiday tradition has sprung up in my family.  It started, I believe, when I lived in faraway Washington State and my son lived in Colorado.  The times one or both of us came to Oklahoma for a November or December visit, we celebrated with a holiday meal and gift-giving at my daughter’s house.

            I seem to have used up my cooking skills, meager as they were, in my children’s early years when everything I made was whole wheat, bean-full, low salt, and taste free.  Long after they left the nest, I became the unlikely chef for my aging mother and bachelor brother.  Those were easier (and tastier) cooking years because I had an unlimited grocery budget and did not read labels.

            When I moved to Oklahoma four years ago and took up living solo in the house across the street from my daughter’s family, I left cooking behind.  That, plus the absence of a large enough dining room table, was enough to maintain the habit of celebrating holidays at my daughter’s house.  For Thanksgiving this year, we numbered seven:  Shawn, Dana, Benjamin, Joelle, Josiah, Joseph, and me.

            Conversation meandered along assorted topics, with Benjamin providing the background celebratory sounds and Joelle acting as emcee.  At some point, we grown-ups talked about how eating a lot of turkey makes one sleepy.  Meanwhile, eight-year-old Benjamin finished his full plate in record time, four-year-old Joelle asked for gravy to drink, and two-year-old Josiah held his spork in his right hand while using his left hand to finger-feed himself the yummy homemade stuffing and heavenly cranberry gelatin salad.  He ignored Dana’s delicious turkey, savory vegetable medley, scrumptious sweet potatoes, and my tasteless roasted green beans with red potatoes. (I forgot to add the minced garlic.)   It should be noted that he later chowed down on Dana’s homemade pumpkin pie with coconut whipped cream.

In the living room after that wonderful feast, my son felt sleepy.  Leaning back into the loveseat recliner, he closed his eyes.  Four-year-old Joelle loudly reported, “Joseph is sleeping with turkeys!”  Dana and I laughed till we cried.

Reflections

                From Monday afternoon until Wednesday evening, I pondered possible analogies concerning Tango, me, and God.

                I thought of how much I have conducted my life out of fear.  I mulled over how I hide from God even while he is patiently waiting on me and wooing me with his presence.  I wondered how grieved he feels when his own adopted children keep themselves isolated from his comfort.

                And then came Wednesday evening when I walked into my office and saw Tango perched on the windowsill.  As always, I spoke softly.  When she looked at me without the usual terror in her eyes, I approached slowly.  When I was halfway across the room, she jumped down to the desk and then to the floor. 

                She seemed a little skittish, so I slowly lowered myself to the floor.  And then a lengthy petting session began.  She was desperate for attention, butting up to my hand, rolling over on her back, and climbing up onto my lap.  I stroked her silky, soft fur and she purred.  It was like the good old days at ARF.  Eventually, my joints required I stand again.  I said good night and left the room.

                Today (Thursday) she is up to her old hiding tricks, but maybe in the cool of the evening, she’ll emerge for more fellowship.

Beginnings

                We are not off to a good start. 

                I adopted Tango, a six-month-old orange tabby, from ARF (Animal Rescue Foundation) Monday afternoon.  Having visited her many times in the preceding month, I assumed she would immediately adapt to her new home—or at least that she would find comfort in me holding her.  Wrong.

                She was unhappy during the twenty-minute drive home, though she voiced her complaints in a rather quiet voice. I brought her into my house and set the carrier on the floor in my office, where I have prepared a feeding area and a litter box as well as a place to look out the window.  But I was not prepared for her speedy escape the second I opened the carrier door.  She zoomed into the small space between desk and filing cabinet, and then slithered her way under the desk drawers.  She would not be beckoned out by a choice salmon kitty treat.  Now she hides under a cabinet. She will not be moved.

                I am unhappy, having imagined an afternoon and evening cuddling my kitten.  I know that I simply need to give her time to adjust to the shock of new surroundings.  Perhaps after I go to bed (and close my door), she will prowl around and discover the amenities of home:  the scratching pole, the cozy sleeping spots I have imagined her napping in, the catnip mice.  Maybe she will even jump up on my dining room table and clear it of the miscellaneous papers scattered on its surface.  Hopefully she will use the litter box, drink her water, and eat some cat food.

                So, after I lie down on the floor one more time to see and talk to her in a reassuring voice, I will make my retreat.  Well, anyway, that’s what I’ve been telling myself for the last six hours of checking on her (finding her was the hard part).  

Preparations

            This week I am adopting a cat from ARF (Animal Rescue Foundation).  For several months, I’ve been busy preparing.

            For reasons I cannot fully explain, just thinking about getting a cat motivated me to declutter and organize my home.  I guess it’s sort of like preparing for the royal queen’s visit—or an hour with my two-year-old grandson.  Cats are like queens in their regal manner:  it’s said that dogs have masters, but cats have staff.  Felines are also like toddlers who get into everything, the key difference being that height is no barrier.

            I decided early on to let the closets remain disaster areas for the meantime and concentrate on the visible clutter.  I worked my way through living room, kitchen, and bathrooms.  Now I am nearly finished with my office, which has been the general “throw things in there when I don’t know where to put them” room.  Plus, my desk was a study in stacks of papers I intended to throw away or file later. 

            All the efforts I’ve made—including multiple ARF visits to make sure cat fur won’t aggravate my allergies—in order to welcome Her Highness Tango into my home have made me wonder if King Jesus receives the royal welcome He deserves.

 

            Do I make room for Jesus in my daily life?  Do I declutter my soul through repentance and forgiveness?  Is He welcome in every room of my being—including the closets?  Do I allow His love to sweep away sin’s debris?  Do I live like He is both honored guest and royal head of my home?  Do I delight in the spontaneous joy He brings?

            I hope so.