How To Have Purr-fect Faith, even at a cat show

Chapter One

The Race Begins

Those who wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength;
they shall mount up with wings like eagles;
they shall run and not be weary;
they shall walk and not faint.
Isaiah 40:31, NKJV

 

Whenever I really need to speek with the Lord, I take a long bath. The bathtub is the place where I can be alone with God without interruptions and empty my mind of the world's stresses so the Lord can fill it. The time I spend in this prayer closet is unlike any other prayer time of the day. For me, bath-prayer time is like climbing up on the Ark of the Covenant and settling in to commune with the Lord beneath the wings of the cherubim.

That's why one wintry morning in early March 2001, I was off to the bathtub for a long soak-so long that I had to add hot water several times to warm myself up. The question on my heart that day was Lord, do You want me to go on a national running campaign? Now I know that might sound as if I were about to run the Boston Marathon, but that's not the kind of running I do. Nor do I run national political campaigns. I run cats. You see, my hobby is raising and showing pedigreed Persians, especially my favorite, solid white Persians.

Even when I was a young girl, cats played an important role in my life because they brought me so much comfort. Every time I shed a tear, I always had a kitty to help me overcome my sorrow, no matter how great or small. I had two cats when my husband, Gene, and I moved into our first home-a ten by fifty foot chicken coop that had been converted into a mobile home. No sooner had we settled in than my cats disappeared, although I never did figure out why.

At the time, I was assistant manager of a pet shop, a job I had thought would be perfect for me because of my love for animals. What I discovered, however, was that whenever a new kitten came into the shop, I wanted to save its life. The cat window must have been a breeding ground for viruses, because every time we put kittens in it, they sickened and died. One afternoon, the most beautiful kitten arrived at the shop. She was a Turkish Van with a full, fluffy ruff. She was almost solid white, with just a spot of color on her head and a bit of blue and cream interwoven on her bushy tail. I called Gene and asked him if I could bring her home. He didn't even think before he answered-he just said no!

So, I selected a second kitten, an adorable Tortie, and took both of them home that night. When I arrived, I pulled them out and said, "Okay, since I can't have a kitten, which one of these do you want?" He looked over at the beautiful white and said with a smile, "I'll take her." We named her Packy after Ms. PacMan, a game Gene and I had played for many hours while we were first getting to know each other.

Even though Packy was Gene's cat, she was really mine-and she knew it. She was always there to comfort me when I was ill, tired, or just needed a hug. She would lie on top of me and purr nonstop. I had her for fourteen years, and when she died, it broke my heart. But God's timing was perfect, as He used Packy's death to guide me in the direction He wanted me to go. You see, by that time, I had become a Christian.

I had grown up in a home with two parents who loved each other and taught both my sister and me moral values. However, our daily life didn't revolve around God. We didn't study Scripture, and we didn't have prayer time or attend church as a family. Nevertheless, as a young child I looked forward to vacation Bible school at one of the local churches. (I loved the crafts and the desserts!) The church had a bus ministry, and the summer before first grade, I started attending. I really liked it until one day something happened that changed my way of thinking about church-and God.

One summer day, Mom and I spent all day shopping for school clothes. This was the most important shopping trip I'd ever been on because for the first time Mom let me help pick out my clothes. I had spent weeks anticipating the fun and excitement, and now I spotted an outfit that I immediately fell in love with-a navy-blue matching top and bottom with red rickrack around the hemline. The bottom was my favorite part because it looked like I was wearing a skirt, but underneath it was a pair of shorts. I thought it was the neatest design I'd ever seen. When we got home, I modeled my new outfits one at a time for my father. He agreed that the culottes were the best.

Normally we weren't allowed to wear our new clothes until school began, but on Sunday morning, Mom let me wear my culottes to church. While I waited for the bus, I was smiling with joy because I could hardly wait for everyone to see my outfit. The church bus arrived, and I climbed on board-only to hear the driver say that he didn't think I should be wearing what I had on and that I should go change my clothes. When I asked why, he said that I wasn't allowed to wear shorts to church. Even though I explained that they weren't really shorts, he made a big scene and told me to get off the bus.

I was so hurt, embarrassed, and confused. Why is he treating me like this? I wondered. I hand't done anything wrong. I was behaving myself, and I was dressed properly. Trying to hold back my tears, I got off the bus and walked back to the house. Mom asked me what was wrong, and as I was telling her what had happened, my father got into his car and drove to the church. Meanwhile Mom tried to calm me down. She said that it didn't matter what I wore to church and that if the people in that church wouldn't let me in because of what I was wearing, they would reject the Lord Himself because He wore a robe and sandals. That made me feel better about the bus driver, but I never wanted to see him or that church again. I was too embarrassed to face all those kids.

Years later, my father told me that when he went to the church to talk about the incident, the pastor told him that the church had a strict dress code that everyone had to meet. After talking with the pastor for a long time, my father left with a strong dislike of him, one that I believe made it even more difficult for him to have faith. At that time both of us tended to confuse who God is with what the church does, and that kept us from having a personal relationship with the Lord.

At any rate, that was my last attempt to attend church until I was in middle school, when one Sunday morning a group of us from my street decided to go to church. When we drove up, I recognized the building. It was the same church that had kicked me off the bus. The pastor was also the same, and I was shaking inside, worried that he would recognize me and that I'd be crushed and embarrassed all over again. Even after all those years, my insides still shook with fear. I was pretty much grown up by then, though, and no one seemed to remember me, so the Sunday school class and service went smoothly. I even enjoyed it, and so I was back to attending church.

Nevertheless, I was more interested in the free hotdogs, kites, and goodies on the bus than learning about how to have a relationship with God. Even though I walked up to the altar and ask to be saved a half-dozen times, I never was, because I had no clue what I was asking for. After a short while, my friends and I started to get bored with the services and decided we'd rather stay home. When the bus ministry put pressure on me to go back to church, I said that I didn't believe in God. At that point, the church and God were so closely related in my mind that I'm not sure I did believe in Him. I hand't felt the love they all talked about.

I was entering those years when boys tend to become a girl's priority, and without God to guide me, I made choices that led me down the wrong path. I wanted to date and to be able to live my life as I saw fit. Neither Mom nor Dad liked the boy I wanted to marry, so the day I turned eighteen I moved into my own apartment. I didn't want to live by my parent's rules any longer. I smoked, got high on pot, and lived with my boyfriend.

I thought living with him before we got married would ensure that our marriage would last, but, oh, how wrong I was! I got married before graduating and had a child, Joshua, a few months later. Although my husband and I had dated for five years, we had been married for only seven months when I knew it would never work. I ended up in the hospital three times because of the things he did to me, and when he began abusing Joshua, I packed my things and left.

My son and I paid a very dear price for the choices I had made. At first I worked three jobs as a cocktail waitress. My hours started between 1 and 3 P.M. and went until 6 A.M., seven days a week. I had no time to raise a baby, or even bond with one. I had been taught that the bills had to be paid, even if it meant going without food. So I pretty much starved to make certain I paid the rent. Later, I started working for a fast food restaurant, and when I was promoted to assistant manager, I thought I finally would make enough money to raise my son properly. The price of the promotion, however, was more time away from him. Since I was now on a salary, I worked in place of hourly employees to save on the cost of labor.

Nevertheless, something good came out of this job-I met Gene, the manager of the chain's other fast-food store in our area. We would call on each other to borrow bread and such when our truck orders came up short. We slowly got to know each other, and eventually we got married. Gene adopted Joshua, and we had a daughter, Racheal.

One night while we were still living in our chicken-coop trailer, Gene asked me to read the book of Revelation in the Bible. I did, and I think it scared me more than anything ever had, for I sensed that the wrath I read about was for me. A few months later we moved into a home large enough for our growing family, and it was there one evening when Gene and Joshua were out, the baby was sleeping, and I was doing the dishes that I heard a voice on television asking if I wanted to be saved. I walked into the living room, sat down, and began to watch the 700 Club. I think I was compelled to listen that night because I feared what the Bible had revealed to me months earlier.

"Do you want to be saved from the wrath of God?" the speeker (who turned out to be Ben Kinchlow) asked. "Do you want a relationship with Jesus?"

I felt something within me bloom, become a lump in my throat, and swell up. "Yes!" I said out loud. My throat tightened, and tears threatened to overwhelm me. I grasped my throat and began repeating the words Ben was saying. The Lord used Ben that night to help me comprehend the truth of something I had learned in Bible school but had never understood: "Whoever believes in the Son has eternal life, but whoever rejects the Son will not see life, for God's wrath remains on him" (John 3:36). I asked God to forgive me of my sins. I didn't even know what I was saying, for I didn't think of myself as a bad person, and I had no idea of what it meant to be a Christian. I just wanted to be saved from God's wrath. That evening I went to sleep thinking about the television show, and I felt the lump all night. I believe it was Christ coming alive in me.

I didn't tell anyone right away; I just knew something was different. After that I developed a hunger for the truth and wanted to eat up as much of the Word as I could, and as I began reading the Bible and learning, I started to become a new person. My thoughts were changing, and I was growing. I learned that many things I had once thought were okay were wrong and what it really meant to be saved.

In the meantime, though, my life got harder and harder. When Racheal was six months old, she began having seizures, and though the doctors ran test after test, they found nothing. No matter what they tried, the seizures continued, and for the next year and a half, Racheal and I spent most of our time in the hospital. Gene was working as much as he could in order to pay the bills, and poor Joshua was growing up at the babysitter's home. During that time, Gene and I had another son, Gregory.

One day when she was two, Racheal had a seizure that damaged the entire left side of her brain. Afterwards, she didn't know who any of us were, and she couldn't sit up, walk, talk, go potty, or feed herself. I didn't know what to do. It was as if someone had pulled the rug out from under me. I knew that God was real, so I figured that He was punishing me for the all the bad things I had done while I was growing up. I was still spiritually immature, and so I reasoned like a child. Every day I prayed for forgiveness and for His judgment to end. I wanted so badly to make everything right. God had to teach me that He was not allowing all of these things to happen to punish me, but to bless me and help me mature in my faith.

After that horrible seizure, someone asked if we wanted to call a pastor. Although I had been saved for almost two years by that time, I hand't had a chance to become much of a churchgoer because I had spent most weekends in the hospital at Racheal's side, and the only church I was familiar with was one I had visited just one time. When the pastor came to see us at the hospital, he asked if it would be all right if he prayed over Racheal. Gene and I said yes, and he prayed. That day I witnessed a miracle in answer to prayer. I saw the hand of God heal Racheal. She sat up, looked at us, and called me Mama. That day I knew that God hears our prayers and that He answers them, and my faith in prayer became the foundation of my walk with God.

During this time, my mother became very ill. In 1984, she had been diagnosed with Zollinger Ellis (ZE) Disease, a rare cancer of the liver and the pancreas. Most people diagnosed with it die within a few months, but because she was part of a testing group at the National Institutes of Health, my mother survived for nearly twelve years. Eventually, though, complications and side effects weakened her other organs, and in 1995 she started getting really sick and spending more and more time in the hospital.

That same summer Packy had a stroke, and I watched her get weaker and weaker. One night while I was making dinner, I released her to go and be with the Lord, and she passed away while we were eating. I was crushed for weeks. I was really having an incredibly hard time getting over losing her, and knowing how sick my mom was, I wondered how I could ever handle losing her, too. God knew I needed something to keep my mind occupied, and He planted a desire in my heart for something that until then I hand't even known existed-a cattery.

First, God gave me the desire for a new kitten, and the next month I found myself on the Internet in search of a new Packy. This time I wanted her to come in the form of a Persian with papers, but with every call I made and every e-mail I wrote, the answer always came back the same. Everyone said I would have a very hard time finding a cat with the same markings as Packy and that if I did, it would cost me several thousand dollars. Even then, they doubted the breeder would consider selling it. That's when my desire to own a new Packy became a desire to breed Persians and make my own Packy.

So I prayed and then looked for a female to purchase. I had looked for some time when I came across a cute little dilute calico. She wasn't as white as Packy, but the colors were much the same. Mom, who had never before even allowed cats in the house, wanted me to name her Sassy, which was her own nickname. However, I named her Destiny because by then I had come to believe that it was my destiny to breed and show cats.

One afternoon, Mom became very sick and was taken to the hospital for the last time. For the next six weeks we all took shifts to make sure someone was with her around the clock. I had the day shift while everyone was at work. I had just started learning about breeding and showing cats, and my mind was full of plans that I shared with Mom as I sat by her bed making my show curtains. That is what God gave me to cope with watching Mama die and knowing there was nothing more that could be done for her. After Mom died, Destiny had a litter of kittens, and the new owner of one of them ended up naming her Sassy. I hand't suggested the name, and I cried when I heard that would be her name.

As time passed, I became determined to make and breed the very best of cats, and I gave my cattery to God, who had known that it was the perfect thing to place in my heart. He had given me the gift of the cats, and I wanted to give Him something back. I named the cattery Purrinlot after Packy, for she purred a lot. Purrinlot is a testament to my faith in God. He is the owner; I'm just His handler. I pray about every decision I make because I know that God has a perfect plan for me and that if only I ask and receive what He says, He will guide and help me in every decision I make.

By the time I took my long prayer-bath in March of 2001, I had been breeding very successfully for about five years, and the cat I was thinking about running was Areli, a lovely white male. When I asked the Lord my question, I had just finished a campaign in which Areli came out the fourth-best kitten in the Great Lakes Region. Now that he was a regional winner, running him again as an adult would make sense only if he could win a national award, which would mean that he would be somewhere between the best and the twenty-fifth highest-scoring cat worldwide.

Many people, including judges, had kept telling me I needed to run him because he was one of the best Persians they had seen. Every day someone would ask me, "Well, are you going to run him, or not?" Each time I would answer, "I don't think so." I had never run for a national award, and I had no clue how to do it. In fact, I wasn't even certain I was up to doing it. On any given weekend, the Cat Fancy Association, the world's largest cat registry, normally has from four to seven shows across the United States. Points are awarded in the finals of these shows, and running a national campaign means you have to be not just at the shows, but at the correct shows, every possible weekend. Only the best of the best compete at the level needed to win a national title. To top it off, many of the shows are a long way from Virginia, and since I'm not into flying, I would have to drive across the country and be away from my family for much of an entire year.

One afternoon, the lady who had bought Areli asked me if I thought she should end his career. Her question, along with the fact that people kept urging me to run Areli again, convinced me that I had to hear from God. I wasn't even going to attempt to run Areli without His blessing. If He told me to go, I would, but if we weren't to win a national, running Areli would be running without purpose, and I wasn't about to waste the next year of my life. To win, I would have to run on faith fuelled by God's grace, and that's why in my prayer-bath that day I asked, Lord, do You want me to go on a national running campaign?

This is what I heard the Lord say-not out loud, mind you, but in my spirit with that still, small voice that makes me smile-"Go and bring in the Kingdom." Feeling a little like Gideon at that point, I asked, Lord, will You share with me a word to keep in my heart so that whenever I'm in doubt and or having a bad show, I won't lose my faith? Immediately Isaiah 40:31 came to my mind: "Those who wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint" (NKJV). I e-mailed Areli's owner the verse and told her the answer to my prayer, and she agreed with me that this was a part of God's plan and that He wanted me to run Areli.

Now that I knew what God wanted me to do, I had two months to select shows and get ready, for come May 1, I would be on the road. I went to the CFA site on-line to print off a show calendar to help me pick my shows for the first month's run. After a quick review of the dates, I knew pretty much where I wanted to go the first and the third weeks. There was a show in Raleigh on the second weekend, and, oh, how I wanted to show there, for the lineup was incredible. But I had to miss that show. No show on the second weekend, I reminded myself, no matter how tempting the lineup looks. I had made a date to take a walk with the Lord, and I wouldn't break it. I would have to have faith that I would be able to miss that show and still make the points I needed to succeed. Oh, was that hard!

But after I hit the print button, God made it a little easier for me. When I looked at the printer a few moments later, it was printing the entire second weekend of choices line on top of line. The paper wasn't moving at all. Then when it got to week three, it began printing normally again. I laughed.

"Okay, Lord," I said out loud "I get it. Absolutely no show the second week-for me, that is. I'll be on my walk with You. First I walk, and then I run."

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