until I open it,
then flips his tail and turns
away. I pick him up
and put him out. It's just
the same when he wants in:
he yowls, his eyes dilate,
he sits there looking in;
but when I open up
the door, he turns and looks
out at the yard behind
his fickle tail. I close
the door and let him sit
to think about how much
he really wants to come
inside. I can't complain though
since I'm like this cat
myself. I really want
what's on the other side,
worry that I'm at
I'm at a lesser door and think
perhaps another door
may promise more each time
the Master opens up
a door for me.
Alathough I know the door
He's opened up for me
is all the leading
I should need, my inner voice,
which is not the Lord's,
bids me to think again about
the other doors I know
are closed. I sometimes wish
the Lord would just reach down
and push me through as I
do with the cat. Then,
at least, when discontented,
I could tell the Lord,
"You see? I told you I
was hardly ready;
it wasn't right for me, this door."
I think He'd slowly shake
His wizened head and cluck
His tongue at me, perhaps
He'd roll his eyes, leave me
alone to follow his direction.
