The Gospel this morning was the reading of the lost sheep and the lost coin. It reminded me of one summer that I housesat for some of my college professors. They had a cat that they had recently gotten from a shelter. Along with watching the house and watering the plants (of which I think I only killed one--plant, not cat), I let the cats out of the basement, fed them, put them back in their basement home at night. Well, this one cat wouldn't come out of the basement the first day. The second night I couldn't get her back in. The third night I was having the same problem, but was determined. She was under the master bed, so I shut the door and laid next to the bed with a little dish of food. I called the kitty, put the food out, coaxed and coaxed. I laid at that bed for over an hour before she finally came out for a good petting before putting her in the basement. But, you know, after that night she always came up out of the basement and always went back down at night. And beyond that, she would snuggle up to my feet when I watched TV or sat at the table to eat. I was thinking of God, patiently laying, head on the floor calling me gently, but mostly just waiting until I am ready to come. From the Gospel, I pictured myself as the lost sheep just found. Being put up on Jesus' shoulders as he sang and petted and made me over heading back to the rest of the flock. Who wouldn't want to be in that cozy position, being carried joyfully home?