My ways higher than your ways and my thoughts higher than your thoughts.
The howls from a pack of coyotes woke me from a deep sleep. Never before had I heard them that close to the cottage. I shuddered as their sounds grew more insistent—frenzied—the celebration of a kill. My mind instantly went to the three feral kittens I feed. “God, I’m not sure you’re really a loving God,” I said and kicked off the sheets and climbed out of bed. I stood at the window, peering out into the yard dimly lit by the crescent moon.
“Why is that?” God answered.
“The food chain. I don’t understand why life has to come from death,” I said. “Painful deaths at that.” I strained my eyes to see if the kittens were safe in the hedgerow.
“That’s a tough one to explain to you,” God said. “You don’t understand death, and you don’t fully understand life.”
“What does that mean?” I asked. Still no sign of the kittens, but at least the coyotes had stopped howling.
“It means that you can’t understand my creation. You aren’t designed to,” God explained. “You don’t have the capacity to comprehend my ways.” God tapped my arm. “Look, the kittens,” He said, and pointed to the edge of the yard. There, in the moonlight, the kittens played. I breathed a sigh of relief. “They are in my care,” He said. “In life and in death. You’ll have to trust me on this.”
“I’ll try.” I got back into bed and pulled the covers up.
“I’ll see you and the kittens in the morning,” God said softly. I nodded, too sleepy to reply.