I believe, and so do you, that things could have been different in countless ways.~David Lewis, Counterfactuals
I wrote in my journal that I felt comforted to come to the page, writing a solace. I'd taken a walk in the early morning, grateful to look upward and spy a sliver of pale blue. I wept as I wrote, contemplating the beauty of life, fringed with hope and, too, so often clotted with loss and letting go.
I'd hang on, willing myself to trust God, to rely on His ability to create an inner territory--a light-filled geography. Spacious. A peaceful internal landscape, echoing with laughter.
On my walk I noticed a feral cat sitting on a neighbor's porch steps, its chest emblazoned white, eyes green. The cat's whiskers glinted in the morning light, its nose a delicate pink triangle. I approached the cat, and for a moment he almost came near, but then bolted away.
If only he understood. I could provide daily sustenance. A home. Affection. But this creature could not take the risk of the unknown. He trusted more what he knew--living in the brush and subsisting on lizards, voles and frogs.
"Oh God," I prayed, "I do not want to be like this lovely feline. I want the abundant table you spread before me in the presence of my enemies. I want to live inside your companionship and protection, your goodness. I want to receive your fullness. Your joy. Your strength. Your deliverance and revelation."
Things could be different in countless ways for this cat, if only he could risk the unknown.
"Oh, God, let me risk to come to you, vulnerable and expectant, believing things can be different in countless ways."