She Hides, Poorly—And So Do We

Meet Peggy, the cat who adopted my family. Like most of our pets, she arrived the way all the best ones do—via my daughter, who brought her home one day. Peggy loves the outdoors, but the moment the temperature drops below sixty degrees (which, according to Peggy, is arctic-level cold), she retreats inside and searches for the perfect hiding spot.

The problem? She’s not very good at it.

Peggy is fluffy, soft, and strikingly beautiful, which means she attracts attention—even when she doesn’t want it. Visitors see her curled up and instinctively reach for a gentle scratch behind the ears, only to be met with an unexpected warning swipe. She will snuggle, but only on her terms. As my wife says, “She only knows how to love with her claws out.”

The Wounds We Can’t See

Peggy’s story isn’t just one of stubborn independence; it’s one of survival. When we found her, we took her to a vet to check for a microchip. The moment the vet scanned it, she recognized her. Peggy had been abandoned as a kitten after suffering a serious injury—her back left leg had been broken and never healed correctly. The leg is stiff and inflexible, sticking out at an awkward angle when she sits.

She doesn’t limp, but she carries the memory of the injury in every cautious movement. She enjoys affection—until you touch her back, too close to the site of the old wound. Then her ears flatten, and she lets out a quiet but firm warning. The pain is long gone, but the vulnerability remains. 

So She Hides… and We Pretend Not to See

The truth is, Peggy is all of us.

We all have wounds—some fresh, some long healed but still tender. We all carry stories of past hurts, moments when we were left alone, broken, or betrayed. And even when the pain is no longer present, the fear remains.

So we hide. It’s an old habit, really. One that started way back in the Garden of Eden. 

When Adam and Eve ate the fruit, they suddenly saw themselves differently. Exposed. Vulnerable. So they did what we all do when we feel ashamed—they hid. They covered themselves with fig leaves, hoping God wouldn’t notice. But He did.

Sound familiar?

We pull back when love feels too close. We put up our claws when kindness threatens to expose our tenderness. We create safe spaces that don’t actually keep us safe—they just keep others at a distance. And often, just like with Peggy, the people who love us see right through our defenses. They know we’re hiding, but they let us think we’re invisible, waiting patiently for the moments when we feel safe enough to come close.

Healing Doesn’t Mean Forgetting

God invites us into healing, but He never forces it. He sees us hiding, even when we think we’ve disappeared. He knows where we’ve been wounded, and He understands why we flinch. And yet, He keeps showing up, patient and gentle, waiting for us to trust again.

Just like Peggy has learned to climb into our laps—kneading, purring, and allowing herself to be loved—so too can we learn to risk connection again. Healing isn’t erasing the past; it’s learning to live in the present without fear of it.

So maybe today, we take one small step out of hiding. Maybe we let someone in, even just a little. Maybe we trust that love doesn’t always come with claws.

And when we see someone else hiding—poorly—we can do what love does best.