Lessons on Prayer From A Hamster

So we return again to the lowly hamster. I've blogged about them before.

Over the years I have, thanks to hamsters, been the beneficiary of an occasional good reminder. Today's reflection begins with a bit of hamster basics: they sleep at day and run around their cage all night. They're nocturnal. This is not a plus. They can be noisy at night, running on the wheel and making their various noises.

So when we bought yet another hamster this year (they don't live long, either, which is also a bummer) it was decided to put this one in my basement office, so that the little feller (Mr. Squeakers, to you) doesn't wake anyone up with his nighttime antics.

Here we come to our lesson, for I have a habit of heading into the basement each morning to pray. At least, that's the plan.

But Mr. Squeakers has worked out my schedule. When I come in and flip on the light, it's not more than a minute or two before he strikes the following pose:

Why? Because he know's I will pick him up. And why does he know that? Because I always do. Why do I pick him up? Because he's adorable. And because he's waiting for me. I can't just leave him there.

Now the fact is, he's typically a little anxious when I pick him up. I'm big. He's small. Even though it happens every day, letting me pick him up always seems like a struggle of the will for him. He's afraid. But he seems at the same time to know it's OK.

But I don't think it's entirely the "getting picked up" part that he's excited to have as part of his daily routine. No, I think the bigger selling point of this activity is as shown below:

He knows that after I put him back down, I'm going to give him some food. Every time. And while he's a bit anxious when I pick him up, he's totally relaxed when he places his head in my hand and retrieves the grain offering.

I find all hamsters quite irresistible, and Mr. Squeakers is no exception. It's unfortunate that he's (understandably) rather intimidated by me, and I wish he loved me as much as he loves the food I give him. But that's asking a bit much of a hamster, so I give him attention and food in the morning and appreciate him in ways he cannot begin to know anything about.

It's obvious where I'm going with all of this. I am faced every morning with a striking juxtaposition: Mr. Squeakers meets me in the morning right when I meet with God. In fact, I put off my meeting with God in order to attend to him. The parallels are many and obvious. I don't have to lay them all out. But I am reminded of Jesus' words about sparrows and worry.

Suffice it to say, I am worth many hamsters.

And I am reminded also of this:

Luke 11:11-13 (with modifications)
“Which of you hamster owners, if your hamster wants grain, will put a snake in his cage instead? Or if he wants some celery, will give him a cat? If you then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your hamster, how much more will your Father in heaven give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!”

That's an encouraging reminder for a guy heading into prayer time.

Thanks, Mr. Squeakers, for the object lesson. Now off you go to bed.

Lessons On Love From A Runt Hamster

One night a man had a dream. He dreamed he was
walking along the beach with the LORD.

Across the sky flashed scenes from his life.
For each scene he noticed two sets of footprints in the sand:
one belonging to him, and the other to the LORD.

When the last scene of his life flashed before him,
he looked back at the footprints in the sand.

He noticed that many times along the path of
his life there was only one set of footprints.

He also noticed that it happened at the very
lowest and saddest times in his life.

This really bothered him and he
questioned the LORD about it:

"LORD, you said that once I decided to follow
you, you'd walk with me all the way.
But I have noticed that during the most
troublesome times in my life,
there is only one set of footprints.
I don't understand why when
I needed you most you would leave me."

The LORD replied:

"My son, my precious child,
I love you and I would never leave you.
During your times of trial and suffering,
when you see only one set of footprints,
it was then that I carried you."


Footprints In The Sand, I'm not ashamed to admit, is one of my favorite poems. I've brazenly shared this fact with enough people to know that many consider the poem to be rather schmaltzy and maudlin. So be it. For me, the poem has never lost its beauty.

The reason why is simple. I've been through enough sorrows and enough lonely stretches in life to have an insatiable desire for Presence. To have someone with me, and to know that I am not alone precisely when I feel most alone.

I have, of course, always identified with the man in the poem: the one looking back at his life's journey and remembering those times when he was most hurt and most anguished. Recently, however, I was reminded of the poem by an experience that gave me (however slightly) a glimpse into God's perspective... the perspective of our God who says, "My son, my precious child, I love you and I would never leave you.."

A few months ago we mated our two hamsters intentionally. (I have a few rodent-hating friends who might find this clarifying adjective helpful.) Every now and then human parent gets things right, and such moments are to be celebrated precisely because they are so few and far between.

The decision to allow our hamsters to reproduce was a huge hit with the kids, and there was hardly a more excited moment in our home (for children and adults alike) than when the first hamster baby came toddling out of his mother's nest.

For those not versed in these arts, it must be understood that hamster moms can and do consume their children (literally) when they feel stressed. So the arrival of a "live one" into the open air of the cage was cause for sighs of relief all around. As the days passed our joy increased with each new healthy baby that tumbled out of the nest.

All in all, we eventually discovered that there were ten baby hamsters in that unbelievably small nest. And they grew. Quickly.

Before long our beloved and tired hamster mom bailed on her kids with increasing frequency, trying to catch a few winks of sleep in any place of refuge she could find. Corner of the cage... on top of her little wooden house... Watching a sleepy mom trying to get some peace and rest was truly a hilarious sight and, I think, the tipping point for my wife to truly fall in love with our little rodents. There are some things only mothers understand; shared trench experiences make for lasting bonds.

But all did not go without a hitch. Some days after the baby-sightings began we noticed a stunted runt flailing about helplessly outside the nest. With food as bait we enticed Mamma near to the "lost soul" and were apprehensively relieved to see her lug the little one back into the nest. Would the child get life-restoring sustenance there? We hoped against hope.

That night my wife asked me to do one last spot-check downstairs. Was the baby safe in the nest still? No. Mamma hamster instinctively knew this one was heading down fast and, following the laws of the wild, had re-deposited him outside her nest.

Thus began our struggle to save a dying runt. And dying it clearly was. This one was clearly smaller than his nine siblings and quite malnourished. My wife gave as only a mother can. She got up regularly throughout the night, dropper-feeding warm milk to the famished little one. The below picture, taken the next morning, showed a markedly improved hamster.

Our hopes began to rise, but on the second morning we woke to find the little one in a fetal position. When I picked it up, little Runt (so named by the children) breathed its last right there and then, in the palm of my hand.

I made my peace with the outcome quickly, but over the next few hours found myself reflecting on our loss of, in the eyes of the world, such a very small thing. What struck me most was how very different my feelings for this hamster were, as opposed to how I felt about the nine healthy ones still puttering about in the cage.

This hamster's own mother had rejected him. His nine siblings didn't in any real sense even know he existed. Or care. Runt was abandoned by all. All hamsters, that is.

But beings much greater than hamsters had taken him (and him in particular) into their concerns in a way that vastly overshadowed our care for the other hamsters. The needs of nine hamsters were met via daily additions to one food dish. Runt, in contrast, we hand-fed on an hourly basis throughout the night. Yes, if love is expressed in action, we loved Runt not least, but most.

There were of course ten babies. And they were all wanted and loved. But it was the one that died in my hands that I loved most and worked hardest for on that day.

It was hard for my thoughts not to be drawn back to that Footprints poem in the midst of these reflections.

Does God care when we suffer?

Do we even need to ask? God cares beyond anything that words can express.

And yet... And yet... we are tempted to wonder where God is when we suffer. We look at those who are not suffering and wonder why God loves them more.

Could anything be further from the truth? Nobody has more of God's attention or more of God's affections than those who are suffering.

We don't have easy answers to the question of why our omnipotent and loving God allows us to suffer, but my short time with Runt served to remind me well of how very much our God adores us and dotes on us.

"My son, my precious child,
I love you and I would never leave you.
During your times of trial and suffering,
when you see only one set of footprints,
it was then that I carried you."

Reminder From A Hamster Bottle

No, I didn't dream about a hamster last night, (as noted in a prior blog), though I have had that dream again since I last blogged about it.

This time it was an image. Sometimes images form in my head, and I find myself a bemused spectator. "I wonder what I was picturing?" I find myself asking, a second or two after the image took shape. I query my own brain for an answer to my own question. It's weird. We really do have subconscious minds. Sometimes I think it says a lot simply about what primordial thoughts are percolating below my conscious thoughts. Sometimes I think it's a nudge from God. Most of the time I cannot tell, and probably the true answer is that I never know.

Too much prologue. So there I was this morning, reflecting on some long, long, painful struggles I have been dealing with. And yet I am alive. Healthy. In a warm home. And yet... And yet... it's so human to turn to God for a solution to every problem – even when we have so much else to be thankful.

While I struggled with a few "Why" questions this image formed. Took shape. And I asked myself what I was looking at. It was the stopper on a hamster bottle. It's been 30 years now, but I'm pretty sure it was the way the bottle worked when I was a kid and had my own hamster. Rubber, with a tube running through it. Nowadays they screw on, but I digress.

So there it was. A hamster bottle stopper.

Why on earth? What brought that ancient artifact to my mind?

But as I reflected a bit, I had to smile. The hamster has to really work at it to get the water. There's a little ball at the end of the tube. That's what keeps the water from flowing out all at once. So the little feller has to push the ball bearing up to get each sip. It takes a little while. But it works.

If the hamster had a brain (a dubious proposition) he might wish for a faster delivery system. Why, oh God, he might ask, do I have to go through all this hassle. There's tons of water up there. I can see it.

But of course if it all came down at once, it would flood the cage and make it unsanitary. And I know from experience that an open dish of water likewise soon gets soiled with hamster poop, cage fluff and soggy hamster treats.

There is an upside to that delayed and slow delivery system. The water that comes is good, pure... and it sustains.

So maybe there is a lesson here for me. I am alive. The trials I have been through have not taken me out. God has provided. Drip-feed survival is not to be mocked. It may be a blessing. One day I will die anyway, but in the meantime perhaps a lesson from the hamster bottle. Someone who loves me has provided for me.

Even when it comes out slowly.

Lessons From A Hamster

At least twice in recent months I dreamed I was holding a struggling hamster in my hands. In both dreams I struggled to accomplish two rather incompatible goals. One the one hand, I didn't want to hurt the tiny creature I had in my strong hands. On the other, I didn't want the hamster to escape my grasp and fall to the floor.

Injury and/or death awaited the hamster if it fell from my hands, but the very same fate lay in store for the hamster if I held it too tightly. And the problem was this: the hamster, in both dreams, was in full panic mode.

We have two hamsters in our home, so I can attest to the fact that hamsters do panic – and when they do, the floor is the next stop if you're not watching them closely. They'll jump to their death, given the opportunity. When they've decided to panic, that is.

So... why the dream? I'm not sure, but I have some guesses. I tell guests in our home regularly that I love to think of the hamsters as reminders for humans of how God thinks about us. We're dumb as a box of rocks (with all the smart ones taken out) and yet he absolutely adores us. We cannot do one blasted useful thing for him, but he's just tickled pink to watch us just to see what we'll do next. He even delights in watching us sleep. Obviously the illustration should not be taken too far, but I still find it helpful.

But what does God do with us when we're panicking? Here I may be reaching too far to interact with a dream that has more to do with last night's pizza than with instruction from on high. But I had the dream twice, so it must have significance in my own thoughts, if not God's.

In the dream I found myself both times coming to the same conclusion. The safest place for the struggling hamster was a cage. I wanted to hold and caress the hamster, but it was squirming like a banshee and to keep it from escaping my hand (and falling to the floor) I had to squeeze it too hard. In the cage I would not have to hold the hamster. It'd be a restricted world for the hamster, but it'd be a safe one.

When in life I find myself feeling caged in, perhaps the time has come to reflect on whether I would be willing to rest (without struggling) in my Father's hands. The sense of imprisonment might just recede if I could.