My daughters and I return from the store with a new little rug to place in front of the kitchen sink. Within minutes, our cat, Snowflake, who otherwise refuses to make public appearances, stretches out upon it and curls up into a comfortable little loaf of relaxation.
This is now her little rug, apparently.
I comment to my friend that cats think everything brought into the home must be a gift for them. It's endearing and sweet, and I laugh about it all afternoon. I look at that little cat and think how precious it is to believe that what's brought in must surely be some kind of gift from a benevolent owner.
I think of this cat-like behavior that suddenly seems less selfish and more trusting. It's audacious in an instructive kind of my way for me. I want to stand at the door of my life and see what's coming and think, "Oh, this must be a gift for me," because God is that kind of God.
I want to be more cat-like in my simple belief that what's coming is necessarily a good gift--no matter what the form. Can you imagine approaching the day like this?
Oh, this? This must be for me.
This must be for me because You are a good God of great gifts.