I like cats. They don’t always like me. But then, that may be the source of my inherent respect—I secretly admire their independence. Dogs are born to please. They come running at your bidding…but a cat? Not so much. It can be irritating or endearing when a cat resists our advances, shrugs and saunters off with the implied, “Poor guy must think he’s in charge here.”
I figure that’s why a lot of men claim they don’t like cats: they are annoyingly independent.
Years ago, when our sons Jason and Ryan were still preschoolers, they gleefully adopted a stray kitten. Unfortunately, like many farm kittens, it didn’t make the cut—here in rural Ohio, cats come and go like depression era hobos. Fluffy burned through all nine lives in as many days then succumbed to the rigors of rural life.
Marilyn and I identified Fluffy’s tragic passing as a good teaching moment, an opportunity to expose our boys to the circle of life. And to that end, we made arrangements for the little feline’s Christian burial.
While Marilyn and the boys carefully prepared the shoe box casket, I opened the grave. We gathered together as a family under a scraggly shade tree at the edge of the property. In solemn remembrance of a life once lived, we shared our favorite memories of Fluffy and solemnly lowered the shoe box into its shallow grave.
Respectfully. I shoveled the grave closed, expecting the boys to linger in their grief. But as soon as the first shovel-full of dirt hit the box they darted off toward their next adventure. Looking back, I realize Marilyn and I were the only ones experiencing any emotion over kitty’s passing. The boys were curious but clearly not emotionally invested.
Several days later, as I was working in my shop, I glanced out the window to see our youngest son, Ryan, squatting in the driveway surrounded by several neighborhood boys, their attention riveted on whatever Ryan was holding forth. I smiled, mentally capturing this iconic picture of childhood innocence. Suddenly, as one of the youngsters rocked forward to poke at the object de’ art, my line of sight revealed what had captured their curiosity—and I was appalled!
Ryan and his cohorts had manually resurrected Fluffy and were passing the dead kitty from one to the other for closer inspection. Rigor mortis had set in and the little bugger was stiff as a board. I gasped in disgust as Ryan held it straight out by its stick-like tail. As I recoiled in repulsion, Ryan and his forensic buddies giggled with delight. It was as though they stumbled upon a new Transformer toy as each boy took a turn tapping it on the ground, turning it over and over.
Fluffy’s second burial was much less ceremonial. I replaced the eulogy with stern instructions to never disturb the grave again.
One of the most compelling aspects of our Christian faith hinges on God’s promise to one day “disturb” our grave. Using the same power He employed to resurrect His beloved Son, our Heavenly Father promises to one day raise up our mortal coil. This is great news, my friends! By my last count, everyone born more than 125 years ago has died. I’m no math whiz but I think that’s pretty close to 100%. In other words, everyone who’s born eventually dies!
The Apostle Paul speaks directly to this incredible faith-fact in his letter to the Romans:
“It stands to reason, doesn’t it, that if the alive-and-present God who raised Jesus from the dead moves into your life, he’ll do the same thing in you that he did in Jesus, bringing you alive to himself? When God lives and breathes in you (and he does, as surely as he did in Jesus), you are delivered from that dead life. With his Spirit living in you, your body will be as alive as Christ’s!” Romans 8:11 The Message
I think that’s kind of a big deal, don’t you? I not so sure about Fluffy’s chances at the resurrection, but, like Paul, I’m absolutely certain about those of us who place our faith in Jesus Christ.