Good morning…
My friend has a cat who companions her beautifully. Our little dog is a lot like her cat. Our precious pets teach us so much about love, about life, about God’s gentle presence. I was recently nudged to email my friend: “This poem made me think of you, rocking with your cat curled on your lap, soaking in healing with the gift of silent solitude. I love watching the Spirit of God grow thick inside you.”
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Learning To Lie Still by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer
It isn’t easy.
Good, then, to have a cat
come lie in the curve of my arm
with her full weight on my weight,
her warmth against my side.
If she purrs, so much the better.
How could I rise and disrupt
her low gravelly song?
So I lie still. Awake, but not scrolling.
Not speaking. Not running to fix.
It comes to this—my great hope
for learning to lie still
is to become a cushion for cat.
It’s a noble hope—to lie still
as a cat in the curve of an arm,
still as a pool of daylight on the sill,
still as the sun itself, holding the center
as the whole world moves around it.
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Awake, but not scrolling, not speaking, not running to fix. While the whole world moves frantically around, the warm, weighty presence of our pets silently sinks in: “Be still with me.” As we learn the art of resting still, the Spirit of God grows thick at our center.
And so God’s people have a complete rest waiting for them (Hebrews 4:9, NLV).
…Sue…
