When our children were young, we had a cat named Tiger. One of our church members gave him to us as a birthday gift for our second child. Tiger had gray fur with black stripes like a tiger cub, which is how he got his name. When he came to us, he had just been weaned—still a tiny kitten.

Tiger’s daily routine consisted mostly of napping or curling up on someone’s lap to receive affection. If we ignored him, he would go to great lengths to get our attention, using every form of kittenish charm. He was so mischievous that he would dart around the house with the children, up and down the stairs, playing endlessly.

But as he grew older, Tiger began to gaze longingly out the window, sitting on the sill watching the outside world. If he saw squirrels climbing trees in the front yard, his ears would perk up and he’d reach out with his paws as if trying to catch them. When butterflies fluttered over the flower bed, his eyes sparkled, tracking their every movement.

Eventually, he started listening intently to the cries of stray cats at night, yearning to go outside. Unable to ignore his clawing at the door, we finally allowed him to venture out. But every time he did, he would climb up the towering old oak tree in front of our house—perhaps over a hundred years old—and refuse to come down.

At first, we thought hunger would bring him down. But even after an entire day, he stayed put. The bitter winter winds whipped the bare branches, and we feared Tiger might end up a frozen statue. The children were in a panic. They placed food at the base of the tree and pleaded with him to come down, but he didn’t budge. We spent many sleepless nights waiting for morning with hearts full of worry over a cat in a tree.

One day, with no way to reach him ourselves, we called the fire department:

“Our cat is stuck in a tree and won’t come down. Could you help us?”

“We’re sorry,” they replied. “We used to help with those things, but now we no longer have the resources.”

Disappointed, we tried to think of someone else who might help and remembered Mr. Eli Reeve, the church custodian. At Christmas, we had seen him use a tall ladder to hang decorations high on the sanctuary walls. Hearing of our situation, he came right away and carefully leaned his special ladder against the oak tree, climbing up slowly.

“Tiger! Come on, good boy,” he coaxed. But instead of being rescued, Tiger glared at him and clawed his arm in resistance. Then, slipping out of his grasp, he climbed even higher.

“Tiger! It’s okay! Trust us!” the kids pleaded from below. But Tiger wouldn’t move.

As Mr. Reeve struggled to reach him, Tiger suddenly lost his footing and fell. With a cry, he bolted straight into the parsonage and crawled under the sofa, half-dead with fright.

Later, we learned that the old cat living next door—also belonging to the custodian—would attack Tiger every time he saw him. Gentle and timid, Tiger had been running for his life, climbing that tree to escape the bully.

Every time I think of Tiger’s winter misadventure, I see myself in him—how I often resist God’s love and protection, running away instead of resting in His arms. Though the Lord reaches out to us, calling us to draw near and offering salvation, we often look elsewhere for refuge. Yet, in the end, there is no place of rest but in God’s embrace. Still, like foolish children, we hesitate to surrender and trust completely.

All that winter, we stirred up commotion every few days trying to get Tiger down from the oak tree—but I cherish those memories. Tiger is gone now, but the oak tree still stands strong, silently reminding me where my final resting place will be.