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Today's Christian, January/February 1999
The Purrfect Gift for Josh
A dying boy wanted a cat, but not just any cat
by Jane Wood
I was nearly home. At the last crossroads, two miles from our farm, I waved at Jean Jones who was stepping out of Jones's Grocery, a filling station turned mini-mart. Her black Lab, Suzette, wagged "hello," too. I smiled, thinking about my own three dogs waiting at home for me. Glancing at The Church of Hope on the opposite corner, I said a short prayer of thanks for all of God's creatures.
A mile down the road, I saw them—two tan-and-white puppies on the shoulder of the road. Abandoned.
They could have taken them to the animal shelter, I thought angrily, seething at the irresponsibility of uncaring owners. Leaving helpless animals barely six feet away from a dangerous highway is criminal. I slowed down, fighting the urge to rescue them.
"No!" I snapped, scolding myself, "you do it everytime. Let someone else
… another passer-by will pick them up."
I arrived home fuming.
"Who licked the red off your candy?" my husband, Callbie, teased.
His lighthearted tone changed when I told him about the pups. Still frowning, I stormed into the kitchen to prepare dinner. I didn't toss the salad—I snatched and tore the lettuce, grated the carrots fiercely (along with my finger), and sliced the radishes with such force I scored the cutting board.
Dinner was eaten in silence. Cruelty to animals upsets everyone in our family.
"Let's go get 'em," Callbie suggested over coffee.
With a sigh of relief, I hugged him and grabbed my coat.
Responding to a need
The next morning I dropped off two wiggly tan-and-white orphans at the animal shelter. Returning home, I sipped a late morning cup of tea while gathering my thoughts for Christmas, six weeks away. Shopping for gifts didn't appeal to me at the moment.
"Why shouldn't I treat myself and do what I want to today?" I asked Pert the cat, sleeping at my feet.
Pert opened one eye, yawned, and answered in feline body language—"Go for it!"
I switched the answering machine on, and set out to enjoy the outdoors—walking, spending time with the horses, puttering in the yard.
By mid-afternoon the red light on the answering machine was flashing. I fast-forwarded through the messages, but stopped when I heard my sister-in-law's voice.
"Jane, it's Sandy. Call me as soon as you can … I need a favor. I'm at work."
"Hi Sandy, what's up?"
"Hey, Jane … I … ," she stammered, "I hate to ask you … I know you're busy at Christmas and everything, but I think you can help … "
"Help who? Help what?"
"A ten-year-old boy in the final stages of leukemia."
"Oh, no," I winced. "Do I know the family?"
"No, and neither do I, exactly. The child's aunt is new at the bank. She's told me about Josh—his moth-er and father are divorced, and he's being raised by his grandparents. It's very sad."
There was so little time
to locate a made-to-order
kitten for Josh.
She cleared her throat. "Anyway, he's just been released from the hospital after the latest round of transfusions." Her voice trailed. "Won't last, next trip will probably be the … "
I interrupted. "What can I do?"
"Well, Josh loves animals. I've told Marilyn about you and your experiences with orphaned and injured critters. She thinks Josh would be thrilled to hear your stories. Think you could drop by for a short visit and a story or two?"
"Absolutely! Give me the information. I'll go today!"
A brave boy's wish
Josh smiled when I entered his room. Nearly lost in a nest of pillows as white as his small emaciated face, he spoke in a breathless whisper. "I've been waiting for you, Mrs. Wood. Wha' cha' gonna' tell me about first?"
My heart sealed my throat for a moment. Memories of injured furred and feathered friends came to mind, all with pain in their eyes—physical and mental pain. Josh's large overly-bright eyes reflected a deeper pain—the pain of understanding that death was near. And yet, there was peace as well. I prayed for our time together.
"Well, now," my voice squeaked. "I bet you'd like my big old fat granddaddy raccoon story!"
Weeks passed and my repertoire thinned. The week before Christmas as I kissed my newest friend on his feverish brow after our story time, he whispered,
"I don't want but one thing for Christmas, Mrs. Wood. Just one!"
"What's that, sweetheart?" I said, my heart crying at his suffering.
"A black kitten. A black-all-over kitten … no white, just real shiny black."
"I love black cats, too. That would be beautiful."
I glanced toward his grandmother; she immediately shook her head. I could read her mind—so little time to locate a made-to-order kitten, and so little time for Josh, too.
A gift by the highway
I tried for days to locate that special kitten for Josh. After checking three neighboring towns' animal shelters, I came home empty-handed. It seemed hopeless. There had been gray ones, and orange tiger stripes, but I knew they wouldn't do. I had to find a black-all-over one. As tears welled up in my eyes, I moaned a one-word prayer, "Please!"
Driving home from the last shelter, I saw the perimeter of our fenced pasture alongside the highway. And there, beneath a bottom rail, my eye caught a black lump nestled in the grass. Could it be? I'd rarely found abandoned cats or kittens.
With my heart pounding in disbelief, I pulled off the road, hopped out of the car, and hurried to the shivering black kitten. He looked at me with green eyes that said, I'm the one.
I cuddled the kitten in my arms, rolled him onto his back, and scratched his tummy. He stretched his head back in kitty bliss. There, under his chin, was a spot of white. It wasn't round; it formed a near perfect inch-wide star.
The next day, I couldn't wait to visit Josh. "Merry Christmas, Josh," the kitten and I purred as I placed the silky black miracle with a bright red ribbon around its neck into his frail, bruised arms. No one said a word, but tears and laughter filled the room—God's love had been revealed in a made-to-order way.
A Christian Reader original article.
Copyright © 1999 by the author or Christianity Today International/Today's Christian magazine (formerly Christian Reader).
Click here for reprint information.
January/February 1999, Vol. 37, No. 1, Page 57
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