I leaned over our rusty, moldy fence, straining to hear a meow. Our cat had been missing for five days. We thought she was trapped—I’d heard her faint meow that morning. But it had been hours since she’d last responded.
The day had been hot. And we couldn’t figure out where she was. I knew she wouldn’t survive much longer, especially if she was in our neighbor’s roof or trapped in a barrel.
Brad had gone searching all over the neighbor’s yard the previous evening. Nothing. Our son, Evan missed his kitty. I felt helpless.
I’d prayed with the kids earlier that day. And though it may sound silly to talk to a big God about such small matters, Brad and I prayed that night.
Give us our little kitty back.
I wanted to believe something would happen. But even though I’ve spent seven years overseas, and a lifetime of sitting in church, faith is still hard for me. Trust takes work. Prayer is often uttered with more than a shred of doubt that anything will actually change.
One more time before heading to bed, Brad took his flashlight outside and called again.
The light glinted off something on top of the roof. Cat eyes, maybe? He went over there, asking the owner if he could climb the stairs to the top. I watched from the yard until I saw Brad descending again with our cat in his arms.
Evan woke up shortly after. I showed him Katie—bathing herself after finishing a big dinner.
“God brought her back to us,” I said, almost not believing my own words.
Evan gasped and smiled big—the kind you see on Christmas morning.
I don’t know everything about God or about prayer or about faith. I know sometimes He says no, to both big requests and little ones. Sometimes it doesn’t seem fair. Especially when people are involved—people who hurt others.
But when I doubt, I still want to believe He cares about tiny things that meow, and small boys that smile. I want my son to believe he can talk to God about anything. That I can talk to God about anything.
That He hears.
That sometimes, the answer to my small faith is a big yes.