We recently adopted a second cat: a 10-month old grayish male Manx, wiry and bright-eyed, with legs that belong on a jackalope. He’s mostly legs, in fact, and sometimes it feels as though a pinball machine has come to life, what with this critter bouncing off every flat surface in the house, scampering across the hardwood floor and launching off the wearied sofa.
Our other Manx — a wizened orange cat of nearly three years, big and fluffy and steady in his temperament — was not at all pleased by the addition.
For my part, novice cat-owner that I am, I assumed you just tossed the two felines into the house and crossed your fingers. Let nature take its course; let them find their way. They’re cats, right? Low maintenance. Independent. Intelligent. People have multiple cats; that’s a pretty normal thing. These cats will work it out.
Fortunately, a quick Google search and an email from the adoption agency saved the day. As it turns out, my plan was the worst one, and cats need time — and separate spaces — to adapt to new environments and new friends.
And so, I’ve spent the better part of the last two weeks observing the progression of cat friendship. Here’s my takeaway: Curiosity defeats fear.
Our newest addition — let’s call him Socks, mainly because that’s his name — needed a couple of day to sit in the guest room, tucked away under the extra bed, to gain his proverbial sea legs. We visited him; we pet him; we made sure he had what he needed. He appreciated all of that, but he also knew there was some great unknown threat prowling about on the other side of the closed door and it smelled and sounded worrying.
Our original cat — we’ll name him here Sebastian since that’s what we began calling him about two years ago in our real lives — paced and growled and hissed and stared at that closed door. He did all those things when the door was opened, too, and he could see his new companion. That was usually when Socks returned to his hidey-hole beneath the bed.
But over time, Socks and Sebastian were drawn to each other. At first, they studied each other from a safe distance. And then with each hour, they drew closer and closer until they were a paw swipe away from each other — and I stood a nervous two swipes behind in case intervention was quickly needed. Now they’re friends, best I can tell, and together they ram the bedroom door in the morning to insist it’s time for breakfast.
Enough about cats. Curiosity defeats fear. Curiosity draws us nearer to one another. A disposition of curiosity helps us see past our own biases and anxieties and justified concerns.
But curiosity doesn’t just defeat fear. It also tills the soil of relationship.
I know what you’re saying: Doesn’t curiosity also kill the cat? Not yet, baby! And anyway, is that cat any better off locked in my spare bedroom, pacing a small and lonely cell never knowing what more life could hold? I think that kills cats, too.
Listen: Despite my profound pontification, I’m really no cat expert. But I do believe that these cats have helped me remember something of God this week: Ours is a God who desires that we draw ever nearer not just to God, but to one another. Ours is a God who desires we enter into relationship, with God and with neighbor. Ours is a God not of division but of encounter.
It doesn’t happen all at once. Sometimes we need to run and hide under the bed. Sometimes we need to take necessary precautions. Sometimes we need to simply take our time.
But if we give in to fear, if we lock ourselves away from others — friends and strangers alike — then we will lose ourselves in isolation, loneliness and desolation.
God doesn’t want that for us. God wants us to peek behind the door with a hesitant growl and see what more of God’s world we might explore, who of God’s family we might meet.
Curiosity draws us closer. And cultivating that disposition of curiosity helps us reach for the fullness of the life God desires to give us.
