When we moved into our new home, we weren’t sure if our beloved cat, Tom, would be able to explore safely without getting lost in the unfamiliar neighborhood. So we kept a close eye on him for the first week, but eventually decided to let him out and see how he did.

The first time he didn’t return as quickly as usual, I started to worry. I walked up and down our street, calling his name. I never saw him, but shortly after I returned home, the kids found him at the door. He must have followed me there and gotten a little mixed up on which house was ours. After that, he rarely wandered far.

That was almost six weeks ago. But just last week, after a night out exploring, Tom came home looking awful. His tail was matted, and he was limping. We didn’t know what had happened, but we cleaned him up and by the next morning, he seemed like himself again.

Still, the kids decided it was probably time to keep him indoors. He’s getting older and seems a little more forgetful. One of them even made signs for the front and back doors: “Don’t let Tom out.”

But one night, after everyone was in bed, I noticed Tom sitting quietly by the front door, gazing up at it with that same hopeful, patient look he always gives when he wants to go outside. He didn’t meow, didn’t try to get my attention—just stared longingly at the door, waiting for someone to notice.

Should I let him out?

What if he doesn’t come back? What will the kids think if he gets hurt again and it’s because I broke the rule?

But I couldn’t ignore him. He sat there so quietly, so trustingly. So I opened the door and let him go.

Usually, when he goes out at night, he’s waiting by the door again by morning. I assumed that was the case when I came downstairs and didn’t see him—figured my son had already let him in before school. But after a while, I realized I hadn’t actually seen Tom that morning. I ran my errands, but a nagging feeling lingered—Had he made it home?

By late afternoon, I was getting nervous. I didn’t want to be the one to bring it up and admit I had let him out. But eventually, I asked around: “Has anyone seen Tom?”

No one had.

By 8:00 p.m., my worry was in full swing. I knew he must be hungry, wherever he was. So I went to a quiet place to pray. In my mind, I pictured him downstairs crunching on his food. I saw him at the bottom of the stairs, and me saying, “Well, there you are!” I imagined how grateful I’d feel knowing he was home safe. That image made me smile. So I knew I was ready.

I prayed out loud:

"Dear Heavenly Father, I'm concerned about Tom. If it's okay with you, will you please send some angels to go find him, and guide him home? I know you can hear me, and I know there are plenty of angels who are available, ready, and willing to help... [I imagined it again, and felt it again, as though it had happened] ...thank you for bringing Tom home to us. He has been such a gift since he showed up 11 years ago."

I paused, imagined it again, felt the relief and joy of him being home, and continued:

“Thank You for bringing Tom home to us. He has been such a gift since he showed up 11 years ago.”

I ended my prayer and chose not to worry. I imagined the angels on assignment, searching the neighborhood. I didn’t picture a magical “poof” bringing him home—I imagined them roaming a bit, just like we would. It reminded me of the Law of Gestation. Sometimes things take time—not because no one’s listening, but because the help, even the unseen help, has steps to take too.

Fifteen minutes later, the front door opened and my son called out:

“Tom’s back!”

That smile I had felt during my prayer returned, and I immediately knelt in gratitude.

These Rare Faith principles really do work—and not just for big, life-changing dreams. They work for the daily, tender concerns of the heart, too.

What if we approached our goals the way Tom approached his? He didn’t cry or plead. He didn’t give up. He just sat there, focused on the door, trusting that someone would help him reach his goal.

Do you keep your goal in view like that? Do you stay focused with a quiet confidence and expectancy? Or do you worry it won’t happen, and try to make it happen through panic or pleading?

Instead, try this: see your goal already accomplished. Don’t just think about how it will feel—feel it. When you’ve felt it, you’re ready to ask. Ask once. Then go about your life, doing what you can do. Trust that you’ve been heard. Trust that unseen help is on the job—lining up the ideas, people, and resources needed.

Imagine it. Smile about it. And believe—even if it never happens, don’t let you be the limiting factor.

Your job is to believe. It will happen, or it won’t. But let it never be said that you gave up too soon.

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