When I was about seven, our family escaped the summer heat of Rangoon and went up to the cool hills of Mussoorie, India. We stayed for a few weeks in a music building that had eight pianos and plenty of hiding places for kids playing hide-and-seek.
One evening as dusk settled, we heard a low, guttural grunt — the unmistakable sound, we thought, of a leopard. Panic took over. We bolted inside, flip-flops slapping, hearts pounding.
Later, around the supper table, Dad came in wearing that half-smile that always meant trouble.
“So, you kids heard the leopard?” he asked.
We nodded.
“Well,” he said, “I didn’t see any leopard out there — but I might’ve made a few leopard sounds of my own.”
We couldn’t believe it. Dad had been the leopard all along!
But later that night, I was sent to dump the day’s waste bucket near the Skau’s house. I hurried back, relieved to be inside again — when suddenly, a gunshot echoed through the night.
The next morning, word spread: Mr. Skau had shot a leopard.
And before the week was out, a real leopard skin lay stretched across his piano.
Lesson
Not every roar in the dark is the enemy — but sometimes it is.
The lesson is not to live in fear, but to live in trust.
God’s protection is real even when danger is near.