I just got home. When I came down the road, I looked up to the window on the second floor, the way I always do, expecting our cat, Daisy, to be there watching. I knew she wouldn’t be, of course, but for just a second, I forgot.
I did not set out to be a cat person. When my wife and I first started considering dating, Daisy was part of the package. It was not long after that Daisy moved in with me, while my then girlfriend moved into seminary housing that didn’t allow pets. My friends joked that I must really be in love.
The cat and I spent a few months avoiding one another. And then we reached a sort of detente, likely fueled by the realization that neither of us was going anywhere. And then, a funny thing happened, I began to really love her. She was my buddy, and my companion. She sat with me while I wrote sermons, followed me from room to room, and headbutted me constantly until I would pet her.
But this morning my wife and I stood in the vet’s office and said goodbye. Daisy has had cancer for a few months now. It was localized at first, and the vet assured us that her quality of life wasn’t suffering. She said we would know when it was time. And, late last week, we did. I called to make the appointment, and then we spent a few days feeding her all of her favorite things, and saying goodbye.
In the end, it was both horrible and beautiful. Our vet is wonderfully kind and patient, and she let us bless Daisy before she gave her the sedative. We stayed with her the whole time, thanking her for being such a good friend to us. We told her it was okay to go. We told her we loved her. And then, she went home.
The other day I said to myself, “I don’t want to ever get another cat. This is too hard.” But then I realized the hard truth: everything we truly love will at some point or another bring us pain. That’s the reality of life. People, and animals, that we love will die. Or, even worse, they’ll disappoint us. Or hurt us. Or leave us.
But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t love them anyway. Because if we shut ourselves down to love, and to connection with others, we may as well be dead ourselves.
I loved Daisy, and my wife, who had her before she ever knew me, loved her even more. She had adopted her from a shelter eight years ago. Daisy had been abandoned while pregnant and abused. Every time we picked up a broom to sweep the kitchen she would grow terrified and run and hide. She had experienced the worst of what humans could do to her. And yet, she found it in her heart to trust again, and to, I believe, love us. Her ability to love and trust again, despite the pain and fear she had felt, is not lost on me.
In Lent I am particularly aware of loss. I am aware that we are preparing for the pain of the Passion, and the loss of Good Friday. But, I am also aware that we are preparing our hearts for what comes next: the triumph of love over the worst that the world can do. And the world can indeed do its worst; and it does. It will break our hearts. It will bring us to our knees. It will take our breath away, along with all we love. And yet, none of those things will have the last word in the end. Because, in the end, love rises again.
I give thanks for “all creatures great and small” and to the Creator who teaches us love through them. Thank you, Daisy. I love you still.