It occurred to me the other night, as I was petting Sammy and found him nipping and biting at me, that the amount of frustration I experience at his unprovoked, aggressive (perhaps playful) behavior is misplaced.

Having him around has brought me so much comfort—his cuddles, his purrs, his kisses, his eagerness to see me and be with me. It’s been such a gift.

But I’m finding, as with all cats, there’s a split personality of sorts that reveals itself at unexpected times. While I know I’m not supposed to be frustrated or hurt by it, I am.

After some thought, it dawned on me why I’m so impacted. Sammy is my most constant companion and has become the most frequent source of affection in my life. It doesn’t take much to start entertaining unreasonable expectations from this little feline.

Without realizing it, I somehow determined that Sammy must be well-behaved, predictable and affectionate at all times. Talk about an unrealistic expectation!

I feel silly writing about this, a little embarrassed in fact. I don’t want to be that person who’s obsessed with her pet because that’s her primary source of love. I don’t want to be that person who expects her pet to fill a need that’s deeper than any animal was ever meant to fill.

Sure, there’s love there with Sammy and it’s a great gift. I’m not ashamed of how much I love this kitty. I’ll be the first to sing his praises and tell others how fantastic he is and how happy he makes me.

I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.

All I’m saying is there’s a tricky balance to strike. I can’t expect more from him than he’s able to give me. And as incredible as his love is, I need more. I need the love of those who are my equals–whether they be friends, companions, or relatives.

This made me think of parents and children for several reasons. First of all, Sammy is, in fact, still a kitten. In terms of development, he’s probably close to a toddler. Secondly, he relies on me for everything he needs to survive.

It’s not a big leap to see how similar that is to a parent-child relationship. Children are still learning and relying on us to teach them. They test boundaries as they grow and because of their limited experience, they make many mistakes.

I am particularly struck by the dynamic of single parents and their children. If I could walk in their shoes, I imagine I’d have similar frustrations with my children as I do with Sammy.

How easy would it be for me, as a single mother, to place expectations on my children to fill my need for affection? I’m sure, too, that I’d be more irritated by my children’s mistakes or behavior when I’m walking it alone.

We, as adults, were designed to do childrearing in partnership. We were designed to have someone walk alongside us and offer us love as we navigate this treacherous journey of having others depend on us.

For many, that’s not a reality. And for them, I have great respect.

When we have the love of an equal, the limitation of a child’s love and their frequent missteps no longer cause as much angst. A greater love allows us to appreciate the pure, free and full love of a child’s heart for the great gift it is—as coming from someone who is still learning and growing in love.

Ironically, our children’s maturity in love is almost entirely dependent on the love we, as parents, show them. And in order for love to flow freely from us unto our children, our hearts must first be stretched and filled with love from others.

It would follow then, that the love we allow ourselves to experience in this life is critical to the healthy development of our children (and pets for that matter).

That being said, one of the most important things we can do for our children is to prioritize our love life outside of them—whether divinely sourced or from human companions.

If we can do this, our children will grow in love and strength. And, in time, they will be able to return a greater portion of that love back to us as they mature into adulthood and become more our equal than our dependent.

One last thought on parent-child love…

When we are able to love our children free from expectations, we are given a rare glimpse into the kind of love our Father has for us and the enjoyment he takes in watching us grow in this life.

The sweetness of our childlike love for Him not yet fully formed, the humor of our missteps as we first learn to dance through this world, and, of course, the frustration of our inevitable disobedience as we stretch our limits and try His patience.

I’m learning to hold onto my dreams loosely. In the past, unraveled dreams would make me question everything— especially my judgment.

Clearly, I must have misunderstood God’s direction because He wouldn’t lead me to a dead-end. That’s not the way a loving father treats his children, misdirecting them like that.

But I was sure He was there—holding my hand, leading me to this point. Was my experience of His presence all in my head? It just doesn’t add up.

After turning it over in my head many times, I wonder if there’s another explanation.

Could it be I’m placing too much weight on the outcome? Maybe He isn’t misleading me after all. Maybe the outcome just doesn’t really matter.

What if the source of inspiration—a vision and hope for the future— completes its full purpose by simply inspiring us. By causing us to look for something better, hope for something bigger, believe in something greater than what we can presently see. What if that experience is the full gift and not a guarantee of the future?

What if the inspiration and the outcome don’t have to match at all? What if our cause for hope doesn’t have to take form in our future for it to be effective? If it isn’t realized as we dreamed it, we need not lose heart because maybe that wasn’t the purpose of the dream after all.

What if the purpose of the dream is just that—to experience the dream in all its fullness while it lasts and while it has its place in our lives. That’s a beautiful thing. And when the dream ends, so enters another one. That is, if we’ve allowed the previous dream to move on, making room for the new one.

Isn’t that life? A collection of dreams and hopes that come and go? Something fluid. Something ever-changing.

What a concept… My dreams have value even when they don’t come true. They are not empty or void of beauty if they don’t materialize. They are full and rich and great still; strong and beautiful just as they were when I first dreamed them.

If they are dreamed openly, fully and freely without grasping, their dignity is not lost in their passing. That can still remain though the dream moves on. The sweetness and richness of its impact can still remain.

The stretching and opening of my heart can still be seen and felt as I move onto other dreams. This is the beautiful aftereffect of a dream fully dreamed. Maybe that’s the purpose—to make our hearts and minds bigger than they were before we allowed ourselves to dream in the first place.

Dreams fully dreamed should change us. They should increase our capacity to dream even bigger in the future, to love even deeper than we could before.

And isn’t that what I’m really speaking of? Love—dreams of love that remain unfulfilled, fleeting loves that make our hearts swell before they quickly pass through our hands. Those dreams borne of love should change us. They should shape us.

Hope’s measure of success is not an aligned outcome but a changed person.

Did that hope shape and refine me while it existed in my heart, while I held it in my hands? Am I different because of it? Am I better for it? If so, it’s accomplished its intended purpose.

Business plans and personal goals are measured by outcomes but hope is something entirely different and cannot be measured the same way. To measure it the same way is to take something transcendent, bring it down to earth (an unnatural place for it to exist), and measure it in shallow, worldly terms.

A deeper measurement is required for something so profound—a measurement of the heart and soul and its growth regardless of the outcomes.

We hope in worldly terms because we are worldly beings, but hope exists above and beyond these worldly terms. Hope exists above our circumstances. Our world is limited but hope is free from all limitations.

Hope is always good if practiced properly.

Sometimes we call it regrettable when our specific hope doesn’t translate into reality. We say it would’ve been better to not have hoped or dreamed at all. But that’s a misuse of hope.

Hope coupled with a sense of freedom and detachment from the outcome is the way hope ought to be treated. Living our hope with a truly open heart allows it to take its rightful place above our circumstances and beyond our specific (and limited) dreams, submitting the details to someone greater and wiser than ourselves.

I can hear Sammy meowing in the livingroom as he longingly looks out the picture window.

I know you’re called to the wild, Sammy boy, and I know that’s something I can never replace.

He slipped through the screen door earlier tonight as I returned home with my hands full. He’s about seven months old and hasn’t spent much time outside but is fascinated by it. As I fold my laundry in my bedroom, I hear his deep bellowing.

I can’t replace the great adventure outside, Sammy, but I can give you something you can never get out there. I can pet you and love you like nothing in the wild can, stroking you as you purr your heart out.

I can’t take away the longing and I can’t take its place. I never could and I’d never want to.

I know I can’t hold you here and if the wild calls you home, I’ll have to let you go. I can’t change your mind and I can’t convince you to stay.

All I can do is love you while you’re here. And that I will do to the very best of my ability. Not done to convince you or to persuade you to stay. Not for any objective at all. Only for the sweetness of what that love brings to me while you’re here. That is enough. It is rich and great and I will love for that reason alone.

What I offer is simple and predictable. It doesn’t have the natural intrigue of the outdoors. I know this. I can’t be more than I am, but you can stay as long as you like.