Wanted

I wasn’t expecting to make a new friend the day I met Hugo Davies.

I was engrossed in my latest book during a walk in my neighborhood when a hearty “Mrrrrow!” caught my attention. Putting the book down, I discovered a jaunty white and brown cat trotting toward me purposefully.

I occasionally see animals of various sorts on my walks, but none, despite my coaxing, ever give me the time of day. This cat, though, had Definite Intention as he trotted the distance between us, looking me in the eye and meowing loudly as he came.

Obviously, this cat had been expecting me. I sat down on the sidewalk to say hello. Without missing a beat, the cat climbed onto my lap, circled a few times with his motor running full-throttle, and plopped in a heap on my legs with all the contentment of belonging.

“HUGO DAVIES,” read one of several tags dangling from his collar. “DO NOT FEED” and “I HAVE A HOME,” said another. A third provided several phone numbers, although they were tough to read, what with Hugo repeatedly rolling over for belly pats.

I spent a good five minutes chatting with my new buddy before wishing him well and continuing on my walk.

That was a month or so ago. In the intervening days, I looked for Hugo on my walks but never ran into him. Until last week, that is. Again, to my delight, he greeted me with a robust meow and a purposeful trot and a purr-powered lap-plop.

It was wonderful to see him. And it was wonderful how happy he seemed to see me.

Now, I'm a sensible human, and I know I’m not special to Hugo. I’m just the human he happened to encounter on the sidewalk when he was in the mood for some attention.

In a way, though, that makes his warm welcome all the more endearing.

Hugo didn’t demand that I pass inspection before he welcomed me into his cat world. He didn’t need me to prove that I’m nice, or that my lap is soft, or that I’m a good petter. He didn’t pick me because of who I am, or in spite of who I am. He just said, in his cat way, “I choose you, no matter who you are.”

It’s nice to be wanted just because you’re wanted.

Last week, I got to interview a music therapist who works with justice-involved teenagers, most of them still struggling with significant childhood trauma. When the therapist meets with the teens, they often come to him angry and afraid, sometimes yelling, sometimes worse.

He doesn’t make them listen to sunshiney songs and tell them to be happy, the therapist said. Instead, he yells with them. He listens with them to angry, hurting music that matches what they are feeling. He helps them write their own music where they can put their hurt and their fear, and he records their pounding, angry rap songs that let them give voice to the burdens they carry: “I done lost so many of my friends my pain runnin’ deep / I’mma go all in with this money, Momma / cause we ain’t have nowhere to sleep.”

You have to meet people where they are, the therapist said.

I thought of that as Hugo sat on my lap, not demanding I be anything other than a human on the sidewalk.

How often, I wondered, might we open doors and change hearts and start on a path toward healing, just by meeting people where they are?

I don’t always understand people who are different from me. But maybe I don’t have to understand them to look them in the eye, show them I care, and welcome them into my life.

Maybe that looks like saying hello to someone whose clothes or music or skin color are different from mine.

Maybe it looks like using a pronoun that’s uncomfortable in my mouth because it helps someone feel less alone in the world.

Maybe it means being angry alongside someone, or being sad with them, or not having all the answers but being there to listen.

Or maybe it just means letting the people I care about see that I love them and want them in my life, unconditionally.

Since my latest encounter with Hugo, I’ve taken several walks, each time hoping I’ll see his fuzzy head and hear his demanding meow as he trots toward me like he couldn’t be happier to see me. I love being wanted, even if it’s by a cat. And I love not having to earn affection, because I’m often not convinced I deserve it.

Few stories in the Bible get me as choked up as the parable of the Prodigal Son, the rogue who makes all the wrong decisions and watches in despair as his life goes haywire. He turns reluctant feet toward home, knowing he deserves nothing but a boot to the tail end.

Looking up as he nears home, heart clutched in fear and sorrow, he sees his dad – not with his arms crossed in anger, not standing and waiting at the gate, but running, coat flapping, arms outstretched, running with all his might to grab his son and wrap him in his arms and cry on his shoulder and say to that undeserving boy, “My child, my child. I love you so.”

On this Father’s Day, my heart leans in weary sobs on my Father’s shoulder, wrapped in the comfort of His welcome, overwhelmed by his acceptance.

I know my insides, and I know He knows them, too, and I know I haven’t earned those feet that race to me and tell me I’m wanted.

Love isn’t about earning. Love is just love. Love is Hugo demanding a lap. Love is a Father’s arms wrapping me in forgiveness. And love is me showing the people around me they are wanted, just exactly as they are.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go take a walk. There’s this cat who can’t wait to see me, and I don’t want to let him down.