Christian Living

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Sometimes I think my house is “The Wild Kingdom.”

Recently, I found a tree frog hugging one of the spindles on a kitchen chair. I’ve also discovered a chip monk watching our TV, a Finch in a sock drawer and another feathered friend perched on my bookcase like a hood ornament.

Lots of God’s creatures visit me, from a lizard resembling the GEICO Insurance rep, to our neighbor’s cat, the enjoyable Mr. Biggles. Never have I met a more personable fellow than this big yellow Tom. If Mr. Biggles could sip coffee and chat, I believe he would.

These guys make it in one of three ways: our pet door, our cats or our children.

I’m calm about critters in the house, recalling just a few instances that had me doing the “cartoon-lady-on-the-chair-dance”, such as the time one of our cats returned from a hunt and gifted me with a buzzing, winged thing the size of a golf ball. Nobody could ID this mythical-looking insect except to narrow it down to “some kind of freaky locust.”

Whatever it was, it skipped around my hallway floor like a wind-up toy. When it came to a rest, my fear was that it would re-charge and take flight, so I opened the front door, grabbed the broom and assumed my Tiger Woods stance. With a swing and a prayer, I drove this UFO into the rose bush for a hole-in-one. Later, I found it on our porch light, where it held a grudge and taunted me for days, just daring me to come out that door.

Since God created everything for His pleasure (Revelation 4:11, KJV), it’ll be interesting to get to Heaven and learn how some things please Him—like fleas. For the life of me, I can’t fathom the “why” of their existence, much less the joy, but God doesn’t make mistakes. Every creature was planned and given a natural habitat—“the stork has its home in the pine tress,” “the high mountains belong to the wild goats” and “the crags are a refuge for the coneys*.” (From Psalms 104, NIV)

I’ve had to really press this with my youngest son, who likes to think frogs browse the classifieds for shoebox condos, and that Finches are cool with sock drawers. Last summer, he carted home a Box Turtle, which offered a lesson about the importance of habitats.

“We’ll keep him for three days,” I said. “After that, you’ve got to return him to the home God gave him.”

My son agreed, and “Tee” the turtle took up temporary residence in the training crate we’d used for our Black Lab. We spread reptile-friendly bark, converted a Tupperware bowl into a swimming pool and created a sunny garden with sand, rocks and greenery. Having read that turtles like salad, I actually chopped greens and carrots for Tee’s dining pleasure.

Between the pool, garden and personal chef, Tee had a sweet deal, but I only saw him contented once, splayed out in his pool, gazing at me with a lazy “Whatzzzzzzzzzup?” expression; other than that, Tee was restless and searching for more.

I’ve known Christians who feel similar dissatisfaction, often because they’ve ventured from their spiritual habitat by returning to worldly ways, mixing-up their priorities, evading God’s calling or seeking their own will instead of His.

Our spiritual habitat is our walk with God. When we choose to wander, we lose the hope, peace and contentment of walking with the One who leads us “beside streams of water on a level path where we (they) will not stumble.” (Jeremiah 31:9, NIV). Outside of that spiritual habitat, our surroundings might be nice and certain needs satisfied, but the environment isn’t enough. We long to know “the paths of life, and be filled with the joy of His presence.” (Acts 2:28, NIV)

When we released Tee on the banks of a creek, his stumpy legs nearly carried him out of his shell, full turtle speed into that paradise of mud and brush. Because Isaiah 43:20 says, “The wild animals honor me” (NIV),I’ve no doubt that Tee was praising God for such a habitat!

We honor God by dwelling in the spiritual habitat He offers, the walk that makes us like “a well-watered garden, like a spring whose waters never fail.” (Isaiah 58:11, NIV) To roam from the path is to go where God doesn’t intend for us to be, leaving us edgy, thirsting.

And like a creek-loving turtle trying to make do with a Tupperware bowl, that’s just not natural.




©Donna G. Morton July 2006


*rock badger

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