He never lets go

I heard her panicked gasp. Even from downstairs in the studio, I knew what it meant- it's the same sound mom makes every time she realizes that the door or gate has been left open and one of our animals is on the run. I laid aside my alterations, expecting to go after our old dog (a proven runaway). No, not the dog, she said. The cat- have you seen the cat?

How does one go about finding a small white cat (a proven escape artist) in a big, mean world? 

He couldn't have gone far, dad says. I walk around in the front yard, but see nothing. Breathing a prayer, I go into the back yard and check around the entire perimeter of the fence, assessing which popped boards the little fuzzball could have squeezed under. Our tall wooden privacy fence is backed by our neighbor's metal one. I pull myself up with my arms, high enough to see that our side neighbor's fence is connected with the neighbor's fence behind us- forming a passage. Mr. Kitten couldn't be too far away if he escaped from here. 

I hear voices floating over the fence behind me- one neighbor lady speaking with the other about the lilacs in bloom. I can't see them, the privacy fence towers over me. But the woodpile....I could stand on the woodpile and ask them if they've seen my cat. 

I push aside the awkwardness of just popping tall above a privacy fence and shocking my neighbors. "Um....excuse me?" The neighbor lady looked around, not seeing me. "No, over here. Uh, hi. Didn't mean to frighten you." She looked at me blankly after she spotted me through her flower bush. "Have you seen my white cat?" She thinks for a moment, says she hasn't. But then I look down...

And who is just standing there behind all the foliage, crying when he sees me? 

I have mom stand on the woodpile, talking to him and keeping an eye on him as I run around the block. Three streets later, I entered another neighbor's backyard (who was pulling weeds in her flower beds. Unfortunately I don't think she understood what I was doing, either) and scooped the runaway up in my arms. Safe, he starts to purr. 

It didn't last long. 

Not even two minutes after I rescued him, he started clawing, wanting to be put down and chase the birds again. When I held tighter, he began hissing at me, batting my face. He didn't understand that it was for his own good. I patiently endured his scratching, his hissing, his crying during the entire long walk home. He drew blood through my shirt on my ribs and my arm was treated worse than a scratching post. 

But I never let go. Because I think, isn't this us? 

The Father, He goes after His lost sheep. We're proven escape artists- always wanting to know what's on the other side of the fence. We forget about the safety we're privileged with and wander about in the alluring world. But then- the shadows loom darker and the wind grows colder. Suddenly it's not as fun as we thought it would be. We cry out- and the Father meets us there. Scoops us up in His arms, close to His heart. 

We're relieved- but only for a moment. 

How quickly we forget our misery and long again for the wild life, the adventures and the pleasures that flashed past us. We cry and we whine and we slap His face.

But He never lets go. 

He keeps walking us, enduring us, loving us. It's like the princess book my nieces beg me to read- after the princess has gone out and lived like the world, after she comes shamefaced home, after her father the king opens the door and cleans her up and tucks her in bed, after she sees how her muddy clothing has stained the king's royal robes...the princess whispers, "Never again. Never again will I ever treat him this way."

The king's response? "Yes, my child- it will happen again. And again. And again. But I will always be here when you cry for help, and my arms will always be open."

He's never more than a cry away.