It was Good Friday, and I was already late. I drove into the St. Austin’s Church compound in a hurry, my mind focused on getting inside before the service began. But something small, vulnerable, and almost invisible stopped me in my tracks.
There, tucked behind a parked car, lay a tiny, white, fluffy kitten.
He was fragile. Still. Clearly unwell. In an instant, the rush of the day faded. The urgency of the mass was replaced by a different kind of calling.
The Question of Belonging
As I moved to park, I saw a church attendant walking past the kitten. I asked him to help me pick it up. He hesitated, telling me simply, “It belongs to the church.”
The answer didn’t sit right with me. I looked at the shivering ball of fur and asked:
“If it belongs to the church… why is it not being fed or treated? It’s clearly very sick.”
He had no answer. And in that moment, neither did I—except for one thing I knew for certain: I couldn’t walk away.
I gently picked up the kitten, much to the visible shock of the attendant. The kitten didn’t run; he didn’t even resist. He meowed faintly for help. It was as if he had been waiting for a Good Samaritan.
He lay in the open, visible to everyone participating in the Way of the Cross procession, yet he had been passed over by many—even the priests.
He was too light. His bones showed through his matted fur. I placed him in my car under the shade, lowered the windows for air, and rushed inside.
Three Hours on My Feet
Because I had stopped for him, the pews were already full. I stood for the entire three-hour mass. Strangely, it didn’t feel like a burden.
As the priest began his sermon, he posed a question to the congregation: “What makes this Friday a Good Friday for you?”
Quietly, I had my answer. Today, I had been given the chance to save a life.
From Broken to Becoming
After the service, I found him exactly where I left him—curled up on the driver’s seat. When I reached out, he leaned into my hand, seeking the warmth and connection he had been denied for so long.
Once home, I isolated him from my other cats to give him a safe space to heal. He ate and drank with a desperation that told a story of long-term struggle. A visit from the vet confirmed the toll of the streets: severe mange and ringworms that required urgent care.
I decided to name him Austin.
As I watch him slowly transform—from fragile and uncertain to safe and seen—I am reminded that healing does not happen in one direction.
Sometimes, as we help others recover, something within us is restored too. In Austin’s quiet resilience, I find my faith renewed—a reflection of the very transformation Lent invites us into.
While the name honours the church where I found him, it carries a deeper meaning. Much like Saint Augustine of Hippo, his story is one of transformation:
From forgotten to seen.
From suffering to hope.
From broken to becoming.
Compassion Over Convenience
As Lent comes to a close—a season of reflection and renewal, it has taught me that faith is not just about showing up for the ritual. It is about what you do when you are interrupted. It is about whether you choose compassion over convenience. It is about the moment you decide to stop.
📢 Call to Action
Every small act of kindness can transform a life. Have you ever stopped for a soul in need?
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A good Friday for Austin….