When my youngest son was somewhere between the age of three and four, we chanced upon a women giving away free kittens in a Wal-Mart parking lot. In spite of my wife’s intense dislike of pets, she let him take home one of them, a tiny, scrawny kitten with a shiny black coat.

The kitten grew to be a healthy cat, and prowled our front deck like a king would his throne room. Of course, our son wanted the cat to stay inside, and we would find him in odd places in the house, most often shut up in our son’s bedroom closet (with a full bowl of milk at least).

One sunny Sunday morning, tragedy struck. We were in our car (my wife driving) and were running late for church (as usual), when my wife backed the car out more quickly than she normally would have, and in the process, backed over the cat. We heard the thump and saw the cat hobbling away, dragging his back legs. Our son was immediately upset, but we did our best to reassure him that his cat would be okay, since the cat managed to escape from the scene. We couldn’t find him immediately, but once we returned from church, I saw him, curled beneath the shade of the azalea bushes in front of our house.

I’m no veterinarian, but my assessment of the poor cat’s situation was pretty grim, as it appeared he could not move his back legs. And if that were the case, I knew he would have to be put down.

My heart dropped when I thought about my child losing the pet that he loved, and not only that, his mother being responsible for it.

So I did the only thing I knew to do. I prayed for the cat. Yes, I knelt down next to him and reached under the azalea branches where he lay so that I could reach him. I stroked his fur, and said a simple, yet sincere prayer, asking God to please heal the cat, and spare his life, so my son would not have to lose his pet.

I walked away after my prayer and left the cat where he lay, while we all went next door to my in-laws house for lunch. I instructed the kids to please leave the cat alone for awhile.

As I walked home later from the house next door, I glanced to the spot where I had left the cat. He was gone. My heart fell a little further, thinking that he may have dragged himself off somewhere to die in peace. I tried to reassure my son that he would be back soon, in as much as I was trying to reassure myself.

A few days later, I had parked my car in the driveway after my trek home from work, and was headed toward the door, when I saw him, walking gingerly up the front steps ahead of me, as if to say, “I’m okay”. I reached down and gave him a little rub down his back, whispering a prayer of thanks to God. And I realized that God does care about little black cats, and little boy’s hearts, and the mostly pathetic faith of a man who’s prayed more prayers than he’s received answers for.

In those times I get frustrated with my prayers, I remember the miracle cat. And even though I may not be getting the answers I want, I take solace in the fact that God is still listening, and if he cared about that cat, surely he cares about me.

What about you – do you have any strange, but true stories that made you think?