Still Grieving, and Not Always Sure Why
It has been a little over seven months since Romeo died. He was 17 years and 7 months old, a very long life for a cat. I am still grieving. As a pastor and emergency service worker I have dealt with death in many forms for years. Recently I responded to a house fire that claimed the lives of six people, four of whom were children. The next day another response to the house where a woman with stage 4 cancer had died. Perhaps it's the conditioning over the years, but I don't tend to get overwhelmed by these deaths. But Romeo's death hit me hard. I have grieved his death in a way I have not grieved for a long time.
People without pets will hear this and be confused. It's only a pet, they might say. It's not a person, certainly not a family member. Or maybe that's not entirely true. Romeo was part of my family longer than my adopted father who I had as a father for only about 16 years. Romeo was with me closer to 18. And comparatively speaking Romeo and I spent more time together than I did with my parents. I left for college at age 18, and although I was home for summers, the time together was far less than in childhood.
All told we had six cats, two of which died in 2018. The fist was the mother Jody. We estimate she died around age 18. I think when Romeo finally left us it was the shock and emptiness of having the last cat gone that hit me. Suddenly something was missing. There was a void. So much of how I lived was influenced by his health and his daily needs or his safety. Doors were closed because of them. Precautions even on what we used to clear the floor were taken because of them. We chose our living room furniture because of them, worried that their propensity to hide inside of things would get them caught in the mechanisms of a recliner. Everything in our lives and the running of our house was impacted by them in some way. Perhaps that is part of why I feel so empty even now....
But the unconditional affection ranks high on the list of things most missed. Cats are often misunderstood and considered aloof and distant. Perhaps some are. Not mine. They spent countless hours cuddled between my legs and on my lap. They met me at the door when I came home. They missed me when I left the house. They appreciated it when they received something as simple as a gentle pet or stroke around the mouth.
In so many ways they got into my heart and now that they are gone something is missing. A little while ago I had to go into the basement to retrieve a cooler. I have yet to clean it of the many reminders of their presence there for so many years. My emotions are triggered every time I go down there. Even as I write this I am choking up. We have pictures prominently displayed in our home to remind us of them. But their reality is gone.
As a theologian I hold out a selfish hope that in the resurrection I will meet them again. I cannot prove this, but when God says He is "making all things new" I have to hope this includes that which brought me so much joy.
So, as the title of this little post notes, I am still grieving and not always entirely sure why. Or maybe I know and feel guilty for it. In some ways this grief is a gift. As I noted before, I work with death all the time. Remembering the pain of grief is actually important if you are to serve others who hurt deeply. God found a way to pierce my heart. Now that open wound remains, a sign that death does have a sting, but a hope that one day death will also be no more. Perhaps this 'wound' will allow me to minister more effectively and authentically.
People without pets will hear this and be confused. It's only a pet, they might say. It's not a person, certainly not a family member. Or maybe that's not entirely true. Romeo was part of my family longer than my adopted father who I had as a father for only about 16 years. Romeo was with me closer to 18. And comparatively speaking Romeo and I spent more time together than I did with my parents. I left for college at age 18, and although I was home for summers, the time together was far less than in childhood.
All told we had six cats, two of which died in 2018. The fist was the mother Jody. We estimate she died around age 18. I think when Romeo finally left us it was the shock and emptiness of having the last cat gone that hit me. Suddenly something was missing. There was a void. So much of how I lived was influenced by his health and his daily needs or his safety. Doors were closed because of them. Precautions even on what we used to clear the floor were taken because of them. We chose our living room furniture because of them, worried that their propensity to hide inside of things would get them caught in the mechanisms of a recliner. Everything in our lives and the running of our house was impacted by them in some way. Perhaps that is part of why I feel so empty even now....
But the unconditional affection ranks high on the list of things most missed. Cats are often misunderstood and considered aloof and distant. Perhaps some are. Not mine. They spent countless hours cuddled between my legs and on my lap. They met me at the door when I came home. They missed me when I left the house. They appreciated it when they received something as simple as a gentle pet or stroke around the mouth.In so many ways they got into my heart and now that they are gone something is missing. A little while ago I had to go into the basement to retrieve a cooler. I have yet to clean it of the many reminders of their presence there for so many years. My emotions are triggered every time I go down there. Even as I write this I am choking up. We have pictures prominently displayed in our home to remind us of them. But their reality is gone.
As a theologian I hold out a selfish hope that in the resurrection I will meet them again. I cannot prove this, but when God says He is "making all things new" I have to hope this includes that which brought me so much joy.
So, as the title of this little post notes, I am still grieving and not always entirely sure why. Or maybe I know and feel guilty for it. In some ways this grief is a gift. As I noted before, I work with death all the time. Remembering the pain of grief is actually important if you are to serve others who hurt deeply. God found a way to pierce my heart. Now that open wound remains, a sign that death does have a sting, but a hope that one day death will also be no more. Perhaps this 'wound' will allow me to minister more effectively and authentically.
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