Tom

I suppose John Steinbeck was right. Some stories can’t be told; they must be cajoled and teased into existence. To force the issue only tatters the wings and takes away the magic. Yarns are like moths and butterflies that way. Let a little boy reach out to satisfy his curiosity, let him touch a wing ever so gently and that mystical, magical covering of dust is troubled; and that luckless moth will forever be earthbound from that ill-fated point on.

To examine a moth one must induce it to crawl up on a leaf, a knife blade or a finger to be carried to the eye. The delicacy of the creature demands a gentle touch. To do otherwise is to destroy it, and that, my friend, is a sin. Stories, like moths take a bit of coaxing from time to time.

Many years ago I was a custom cabinet maker, and my workshop was housed in a picturesque old two story barn just up the hill from my home.  I built my shop on the lower level. I wired it and walled it, but I left the old heart pine floor alone chiefly because the gaps between the boards cut down on sweeping and the accumulated sawdust underneath provided nice bedding for the myriad critters that shared the barn with me.

Every morning I was greeted by my menagerie not with squeaks or howls, but with a fusion of wild, exotic and somewhat organic odors. Rats and snakes, bats and squirrels and a host of creepy crawlies sought shelter and comfort in that old barn, as did I. I loved being there.

Inside the shop up against the wall was an old staircase that gave way to the upstairs. At the top of the thing was a small opening, just big enough to walk through if you ducked.  I closed if off during the winter to stave off freezing, but in the summer I opened it up to enjoy the cross breeze and to air out the place. Romantic or not, South Carolina heat and the leavings of a menagerie do not make good companions. 

One late summer’s afternoon I was working on a raised panel or something of that sort over at the bench when I began to feel as if I was being watched. My instinct drew my eyes to the top of the stairs where a young, adolescent cat sat placidly giving me the once over.

The thing looked like a gang member: wiry, distrustful and dangerous. He was mostly white with a few gang tats, one over his left eye, one on his right foot and the final one on the very tip of his tail, all done in prison black. He was wearing a “Well Buddy, I suppose we have to share this barn, but don’t mess with me, I don’t like being trifled with.” expression.

When our eyes met he didn’t flinch or twitch or bolt, as most feral creatures would. He held contact for a second or two, yawned luxuriously, as if to remind me that I was beneath his contempt, and then rising he ever so slowly sauntered off. 

His is a story that I cannot tell. It took me a year or two just to get him to stop looking at me like that, and try as I may no matter how much I coaxed, or flattered and no matter what delicacies or delights I placed before him, that little cat shared that barn with me for years and always managed to maintain his sovereignty and distinctly haughty air.  

Now while I would be hard pressed to tell his story without an excess augmentation, I can tell you of Tom.

Tom is a Latvian cat. Well, actually he is just a little kitten, pre-pubescent at most. In any case he is young enough and innocent enough to trust without question the Americans who came to visit his home country and invade his privacy and his lodgings. Tom is the house cat of the hotel Pie Jāņa Brāļa where my latest UMVIM team was housed in Liepaja, Latvia during the two weeks we remained in that beautiful and peace-filled place. I will expand upon that wonderful country later, but for now, let’s stick to Tom.    

Tom is the polar opposite of his barn dwelling counterpart. Tom is everybody’s friend. He carries with him an air of love and acceptance. His default position in life is one of peace to and empathy for all creatures, no matter what their origin or attitude.

Like my friend from years past, Tom’s coat is based in white, but carries within it a smattering of various gray hues and just a hint of brown, or rather sandstone. In spite of a pair of eyes that are set just a bit too far apart giving him a slightly confused expression, he is a pretty cat, or rather a handsome cat. No, I will stick with pretty as that better describes him or rather her. You see Tom is a conflicted cat. He was given the name of Tom by a passing child when he first arrived at the hotel. It wasn’t until after the name stuck that anyone took the time to discover his true gender, which as it turns out is female. By the time of the discovery, Tom was Tom and no girly name would fit her. So Tom is it.

Tom is a people cat; and at first I thought Tom was an indiscriminate, flighty people cat jumping on any knee that would have her, but as it turned out she was just testing the waters. She was searching out a harbor, a place where she could rest safe and secure, and she found her resting place on John’s knee. Cats know cat people.

Every morning during breakfast she would cruise up and down the tables until she found John, then she would jump up on his knee, curl up in a tight little ball and drift off to sleep while he gently stroked her from head to tail.

She knew she was safe there. She knew she was accepted there. She did try to step out of bounds and steal a tidbit or two from time to time but with one quiet word from John, she would put her head back down and return to sleep.   

Late at night I would wander down to the dining room, sit on the couch there and play an old guitar to sooth the nerves. When Tom heard the first note she climbed up on the back of the couch and using my left shoulder as a step, she jumped down onto the guitar, settled into the hollow and purred herself to sleep; but I played second fiddle to John. He was her favorite. She only had eyes for him when he could be found.

At first I wondered what the Lord was up to coaxing this story from me. To be honest from moths and butterflies to feral cats and knees it was a bit of a mystery. Interesting enough I suppose, but what’s the message?

As I was finishing the writing, the simplicity of the message became clear. That is that in this troubled world there are times when a child of God and the Church of God simply need to be a safe harbor for those seeking shelter. There is a time to offer rest and rest alone from a world gone mad. There is a time when all that is needed is a loving embrace and a place where the lost, be they barn or knee dwellers, can feel safe enough to just curl up and rest.

Of course the Word of God must be preached or the lost will never find their true home, but they cannot listen without rest.

The Holy Scriptures declare that rest is not a thing we do, but rather it is a place where we reside. Let us be that place for the lost, for the troubled and for those living in fear. Let us as the children and the Church of the Most High be a place of peace and rest.

 
Pastor Tony