The Prodigal Cat: A Tale of Wanderlust, Winter Firelight, and Grace – Stewart Segall

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Nestled on the slopes near Stevens Pass, just a short drive from the fairytale town of Leavenworth, Washington, there’s a candy shop called The Alps—a place that seems plucked from the pages of a childhood dream. I first stumbled upon it in the early ’90s, entranced by the swirl of sweet aromas and shelves stacked like something out of Candyland. But amid the chocolates and gumdrops, it wasn’t just sugar that left its imprint—it was the story of a cat. A restless, remarkable soul who, over the years, came to embody something profoundly human.

The owners of the shop were an elderly Austrian couple, gentle and kind, with eyes that spoke of snow-laden winters and warm fireside wisdom. They told me about a cat that had appeared one frigid season, a stray seeking warmth by the wood stove. They welcomed him in, fed him, and offered him comfort. He stayed through the winter, as though part of the family.

But come spring, that cat was off—vanishing without warning, no goodbyes. Just like that. A free spirit slipping into the trees, answering a call no one else could hear.

To everyone’s surprise, when the first snow fell the next winter, he returned—thin, tired, but unashamed. He sauntered in as if he’d never left, took his place by the fire, and stayed until spring whispered to him again.

And so it went. Year after year.

Sometimes, he’d arrive radiant and well-fed, his fur shining with the care of unknown hands from the valley below. Other years, he barely made it, weather-worn and weary. But always, always, he returned—and always, the couple opened the door.

They never tried to tame him. They understood his nature. They simply prepared a warm place and watched the seasons turn.

In time, the years took their toll. The final winter found the cat slower, weaker. But he made it home one last time. The couple, sensing the end of the journey, offered him rest—inside and out. A cat bed on the porch, a fresh can of tuna opened with the reverence of a feast. No pleading, no conditions. Just love.

And that—that—is the heart of this story.

It mirrors something ancient and eternal: the parable of the prodigal son. A wanderer returns from the edge of ruin, and instead of judgment, he is met with joy. A father runs to his son; an old couple opens a door. The fatted calf—or in this case, the tuna—signals not reproach, but celebration.

“He was lost and is found.” — Luke 15:24

“For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter or purpose under heaven.”  Ecclesiastes 3:1

This verse reminds us that life naturally unfolds in seasons. For going and for coming back. For bold independence, and for quiet surrender. Some of us carry that same wild hunger to see the world on our own terms, to choose the long road home. But oh, how special the surrender and how sacred the welcome when love has been waiting all along.

The old couple, with their love and comprehension of what was happening, was a gentle reminder that both departure and return have their rightful place in the story here and in the tapestry of our lives.

“The Lord is compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in love.” — Psalm 103:8

I’ve been that cat before—wandering, unsure if I’d ever find the firelight again. And yet, I discovered He never left. Sometimes, we don’t need a grand revelation. We just need a door that still opens, and someone who lights the stove and says, “Welcome back. Rest awhile.”

Stuart Segall lives about an hour north of Seattle.  He has spent most of his adult life counseling, encouraging, inspiring and uplifting others.