Beneath the Broom Tree

Today is day nine. Nine days since Pawley last touched a bite of food. And wouldn’t you know, cats are supposed to have nine lives—leave it to Pawley to test that theory. In that time, she’s maybe had a few sips of water here and there throughout the day, but certainly not enough to sustain her... I wouldn’t think. Pawley’s somewhere between 18 and 20 years old, which in human years is pushing a century. By every natural measure, she should be curled up in one spot, fading quietly. Instead, last night I found her roaming the house. She’s even jumped up on her favorite stool, where I’ve found her in the morningtime. I don’t think I’d have enough strength to blink in her condition, but there she was—walking about and claiming her favorite spots.

And I know what people are probably thinking, even if they don’t say it out loud: “Do the humane thing, take her to the vet, and help her on out.” That’s exactly what I’ve done with every other animal I’ve loved who suffered. I’ve never let them linger in pain. But this time feels different. For once it isn’t me being hard-headed—it’s me paying attention. If it were left up to my own thoughts, I would have already helped her out of this. But something deep inside is saying, “Watch and see.” I don’t know what I’m looking for. I just know I’m trying to do the right thing here by God and by Pawley.

Maybe part of the reason this feels different is because Pawley and I have always had big ole mama hearts. I’ve rocked my babies and many that weren’t mine, fed half the football team when they came through my kitchen, made pallets in every corner of the house when there were unexpected knocks at the door, never turning one away. I’ve welcomed the kids whose single mamas were busting their tails at two jobs just to put food on the table, because I remember folks taking care of me when my Mama was doing the same. Mamas helping mamas out. It takes a village, and I feel privileged to have been a part of it.

But if I’m honest, that mama wiring of mine can go overboard. I’ll take on things God never asked me to carry, convinced it’s my job to fix it all. And when I do that, I end up worn out, trying to run the world on my own strength or even worse, making a mess out of things. Working myself to death is not noble—it’s me needing to slow down, ask for wisdom, lay it back in God’s hands, and trust His plan instead of mine.

And Pawley’s no different. She has mothered every rescued animal she’s seen come through this house—and even some she’s watched pass away here. She’s groomed, guarded, and claimed them all like they were hers. Both of us stubborn as mules, both of us taking responsibility past the point of sense sometimes. Maybe that’s why I can’t just rush her past this. I know what it is to be tired, but still be a mama, still feel the weight of what’s yours to protect.

When I read about Elijah, I noticed something I’d never stopped on before. After calling down fire from heaven, after proving God’s power in front of everyone, Elijah runs for his life. He sits beneath a broom tree, weary and despairing, and prays for death: “I have had enough, Lord. Take my life.” (1 Kings 19:4). The mighty prophet of God—undone, worn out, and ready to quit.

And what does God do? He doesn’t rebuke Elijah or demand more faith. He sends an angel who says, “Get up and eat.” Bread. Water. Rest. Then again: “Get up and eat, for the journey is too much for you.” God knew Elijah didn’t need a sermon—he needed sustenance. Simple, quiet provision.

Similar to Elijah, Pawley may be under her own broom tree right now. Not eating, not fighting, just resting. And my role isn’t to rush her past it—it’s to sit with her, offer those little sips of water, and trust God with the rest.

It also makes me think of the manna in the desert. Just enough for each day. Not abundance, not comfort food—just enough to prove who was really holding them together. Watching Pawley take her tiny sips is a living parable of that lesson. This is God’s hand, portioning out what’s needed for the moment.

And here’s another truth tucked inside all this: God may sustain, but we still have to receive it. I’ve been faithful to offer Pawley water every hour, or whenever she raises her head, but she doesn’t always take it. Isn’t that just like us? Even with God Himself sustaining us, we still have moments when we turn away, refuse His offering, and try to go it alone. Survival is there, but receiving is a choice.

Now, let me be clear—I’m not comparing a cat to Elijah, or myself to God. But Jesus gave us parables, stories, everyday examples so we could see the Word in action. I see it in movies, in books, in people around me every single day, even in a stubborn Frenchie and my flower garden. God is everywhere. And I’m not too proud to admit that He can use a cat and a flawed, hard-headed woman to get His point across. He used a donkey, for heaven’s sake. I can relate.

And I go back to what I’ve said for twenty years: when things don’t make sense, either God or the devil are up to something. I don’t smell the devil anywhere near this. It feels all God.

So what could He be showing me in this season, through my beloved Pawley? Maybe that strength doesn’t always look like running full-speed—it can look like staggering through the house on day nine, still stubbornly alive. Maybe that love doesn’t rush death but waits on God’s timing. Maybe it’s that survival doesn’t always make sense, because it’s not meant to—it’s meant to point back to the One who holds it all.

I’ve always believed in euthanasia as an act of mercy. I’ve made that choice before when suffering was clear, and I’ve never regretted sparing my animals pain. But watching Pawley, I’m learning that life is God’s to give, and it calls for me to be respectful and sensitive to His Spirit when it comes to considering the time to take it away. It shouldn’t be a quick decision, born out of my own discomfort. It’s something to hold in prayer, to weigh gently, and to wait on until peace comes.

Whatever the full meaning, I do know this: Pawley is teaching me to slow down and listen—to trust that God can sustain in ways that defy reason. Even now, she climbs back to her stool as if to remind me—our place is held by God, not by our own strength.