I realized today that I completely neglected to blog about the passing of one of our family members in the first week of January, this year: Ladybug, our cat.
Ladybug, or "Bug" as she was actually referred to, turned 12 years old in 2008. We adopted her and her sister Spot (+2005) when we moved into our first home in 1996. They were both black cats from the same litter. Spot was part Manx (no tail), exceedingly affectionate, and seemingly mentally handicapped. Bug, however, was sleek, fast, feisty, and mean.
We have had numerous cats over the years. All of them had very redeeming characteristics to offset their less-noble traits. Most of them would be with us for about two or three years, and either they would die, run away, or we would have to give them up due to a move to a new apartment.
Bug, however, shattered all the old records. She refused to get sick, or to suffer at the hands...er, paws of the other neighborhood beasts (cats or dogs). She just kept going and going.
She was a mean and unpredictable cat, who would insist that you pet her at one moment and then claw you the next. She got worse and worse over the years, adding disgusting bodily functions to her demoniac personality.
As Kate and I were contemplating the prospect of moving to NY to attend seminary, we wondered what we were going to do with this horrible creature. We were opposed to putting her to sleep, as she was both shockingly healthy and we felt that we had something of a tangible obligation to this animal who God was using to teach us lessons about patience and forbearance. She was a part of our family, and you just don't put healthy members of your family to sleep. And, as I said, no one in his right mind would have agreed to take her in.
And then, suddenly, she died. We went away on a two day family trip, and when we returned we found that she was having a difficult time breathing, wouldn't eat or drink without our help; in short, she was dying. She wasn't sick, nor had she been sick. In fact, she was far too healthy and active for such an old, somewhat weather-beaten cat. But now, her breathing had become raspy and she was sleeping constantly and quietly. This began on a Friday, and by Sunday night she died.
The strangeness in this was that I had already said to my wife and our friends that if Bug died, I would take it as a sign that it was time for us to go to seminary. Now, I am not the sort that looks for signs or "puts out a fleece" to divine the Divine. But Bug's death was providential for us, I believe, and (to be perfectly honest) a real blessing. She was never a good cat, but she was our cat. The photo above is of her grave, which I dug 10:30 Sunday night under our oak tree in the back yard, in the rain after band rehearsal. The neighbors must have been suspicious.
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And then last week, our receptionist and friend at work, Evelyn Crumpton, died suddenly and incredibly unexpectedly. Life and Death.
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And then, just a couple of hours ago, I received a phone call letting me know that my friend (and fellow bandmate) Doug's mother had passed away just as shockingly, just as unexpectedly. Again, Life and Death.
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How do we put life and death in its place as believers in a resurrected savior? Do we try to tell the victims of this death in the family that "it will be OK", that their loved one "is with the Lord, so that makes this death OK"? Comfort them we must, but with Truth mingled with love, and without a denial of reality. To quote Peter Bouteneff from his presentation on Death at St. Vlad's a couple of years ago: "Death stinks." This was not and is not trite. Death may have been a part of the original order of the yet-to-be-perfected Adam and Eve, but it has become the "last enemy" and so very evil for so many of us. It brings us deep sorrow and blackness of heart and soul. It is waves that wash over us, like the waves of a perfect storm.
But in all of this, there is Christ, who walked on those waters and calmed those waves. Christ who himself died, and in death shattered the gates of Death, trampling down death by death. Christ Himself conquered death and waits for us as we pass through that door of death.
On this side of the veil, we weep for the loss of those close to us. We who are seemingly caught in the net of time, being weighed down by our perception of seconds and minutes and hours and days and years. We miss those who we are close to, and regret the time we waste not spent in becoming closer to them in Godly love and perfection.
So what do we say or do for those who feel the loss caused by death? I think that the only thing that we can do is weep when they weep, and rejoice when they rejoice, and be silent as much as necessary.
May the memory of Doug's mom and Evelyn be eternal, and may it remind us that our lives are a vapor and like grass that dries up and withers away. Let us not waste our time on anything less than that which will bring us closer to Christ.
