There’s Always Room

One night, a couple of days before New Year’s Eve, a crime was committed in our neighborhood, right across the street from our house. I witnessed it through our upper window and my husband called the police. We told our two young daughters to stay in their rooms.

Later that night as I lay in bed, I had the strange sensation that the walls of our house were far too thin, like paper, and that the house itself was too small. I wished it was bigger so that I and my family could occupy the inner rooms and not be so near the outside edges. I’d never thought about how particularly thin windows are and how fragile. Like glaring chinks in an already-weak suit of armor. In my mind I pictured a better place: A stone cottage like a small fortress nestled within a thick forest, all of it encircled securely by a tall iron fence. Or maybe something like Rapunzel’s tower. As I lay there envisioning this safer place I heard our kitten, Ember, tiptoe into the room. 

Ember—the kitten I’d brought home from the Humane Society a few weeks before as a gift for my daughters. The kitten I’d resolved not to show affection toward so that she would bond to my daughters rather than to me.

She padded across the carpet and climbed up the side of my bed, her tiny claws catching in the quilt as she pulled herself up. I was lying on my side, staring out the too-fragile window when she tiptoed up beside me and stretched herself right across my neck so that her little heartbeat was loud in my ear along with her steady purring. I don’t know if she actually stayed there all night, but that’s the way I remember it. It’s amazing the comfort that can come from such a tiny kitten. I always think of her as the gift God gave me the night the walls seemed too thin. 

From that point forward I gave up trying to withhold affection from Ember. She slept curled up beneath my chin every night and she followed me from room to room during the day. Each time I took my apron off the hook in my art studio she ran to my easel, ready to jump into my lap, where she’d sit purring as I painted. 

There was no mistaking it: she’d claimed me as her person and I’d claimed her as my cat.

To this day I have a saying I repeat often to Ember when she tiptoes up to me. “There’s always room for you,” I tell her. No matter where I’m sitting or what’s going on, the saying holds true. There’s always room for Ember because she is important to me.

Sometimes I feel guilty during the Christmas season. As a working artist, it’s my busiest time of year, full of social media posts and wrapping up orders to mail out. I’m sure there are better ways to manage my time, but I haven’t found them yet! Like a chair with too many decorative pillows in it, the Christmas season feels overcrowded and it doesn’t lend itself to contemplation and sitting still. I was thinking about this today when I heard Ember tiptoe up the stairs and meow at the door. I opened it and said, “Come in, kitty, there’s always room for you.” That’s when it occurred to me that making room for someone I love doesn’t require grand gestures or empty schedules. It only requires a simple response to the love that’s being offered to me. It’s as simple as opening a door. 

I’m going to try to remember that this Christmas season and to delight, even in small ways, in the love God constantly offers me. I want to encourage you to do the same. He is our greatest friend, and comfort—always near. Every time we consider Him, recall His word, thank Him, we are making room for Him, the One who always makes room for us.

“You have hedged me behind and before, and laid Your hand upon me. Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is high; I cannot attain it.” (Psalm 139.5–6 NKJV)

The featured image, “Christmas Sideboard,” is courtesy of Lancia E. Smith and used with her glad permission for Cultivating.

Amy Grimes

For Amy, it all starts with a story. As a child, fairytales and fantastic illustrations captivated her mind and sparked her imagination. All her art originates from the stories she writes. She sees her “story paintings” as windows that provide just enough to start the observer down the path but leave a little mystery to ignite their imagination.

Light shining out of the darkness is her favorite and most recurring theme. Amy, a columnist for Cultivating Magazine, believes that artwork that reflects goodness & truth can bring light into our lives and give us hope.

She enjoys a quiet life with her husband and two daughters, in a house full of treasured books and bright colors. A sleek, black cat and a nervous, brown rabbit keep her company each day while she paints.

www.storypaintings.net/