Grief Looks Like a Small Black Cat.

Grief sneaks up on you. It’s not always recognizable. Sometimes it takes the form of rage against a world on a highway to Hell. Sometimes it takes the form of fear for the future. Sometimes it takes the form of wishing with all your might that the world wasn’t the way it is. Sometimes it’s putting your fingers in your ears and squeezing your eyes shut and pretending that it’s not real. Sometimes it looks like nostalgia. Sometimes a deep melancholy. Sometimes it looks like hiding inside a safe book or movie or game until things seem safer. Sometimes it looks like lethargy and depression. Sometimes it looks like manic energy.
Sometimes...
 
It is Wednesday, December 29th, 2021. It’s that “bonus” week between Christmas and New Years, and everyone is feeling just a little off kilter. Kids aren’t in school or extracurriculars, but Dad is working - from home, as usual. There’s no clear schedule. Some people are sleeping in until noon and others are getting up at a normal hour. Meals are sporadic; errands and other outings even more so. We hang around crafting, reading, getting way too much screen time, and often just wandering around aimlessly wondering what we’re supposed to do with ourselves. It’s a weird week.

But today food was put on the dinner table on time, and we’ve actually been doing pretty well staying occupied and - well - peaceable.  So I am caught entirely off guard when my middle child seems to be having a minor melt-down as the dinner dishes are cleared away. She was fine all afternoon. I wasn’t aware of any inter-sibling conflicts or other serious disappointments in the recent past. But she’s not snapping out of it - she’s snapping at everyone. And now she’s huddled into a ball quietly sniffling.

I kneel down beside her wearing my best patient mom face, while silently decrying the loss of our family game time.
“What’s wrong, sweetie?”
“sniffle, mumble, mmph.”
I rub her back, and keep digging. “Do you have a headache?” (No.) “Has there been some drama with your friends?” (Uh-uh.) “Then what’s wrong?”
“I miss Nettle.” (Sob!!!)

Oh.

December 31, 2020. The last day of the year everyone wished never happened in the first place. Late November, our 16 year old cat started declining, rapidly. The vet encouraged us to put her down, in fact, just a few days before Thanksgiving. We didn’t, and she seemed to be getting better. She was almost normal for a week or two around Christmas. But the 31st wasn’t a good day for her. There were signs. And there was absolutely nothing we could do. So, we made her as comfortable as we knew how and went on to my parents’ house for a small and somewhat subdued Hogmanay. But this year we didn’t sleep over like we usually do. We came home instead, and, sure enough, Nettle had passed while we were out.  
The afternoon of January 1st was spent digging a grave for the first pet we had to bury as a family. The first pet I’d had to bury ever. 

Grace had been Nettle’s favorite since Grace was maybe four, and Nettle 10. She would sleep on Grace’s bed, purr for her, patiently accept all her affections, and comfort her when she couldn’t sleep. We called her an emotional support cat.

Grace and Nettle in 2013

 

Still, by December 2021 I don’t think I’d thought of Nettle in... months. Oh, we may have mentioned her in passing a time or two, but I certainly hadn’t stopped to miss her.
Some of this is because we had two other cats by the time she passed. One of them looks so much like her we had trouble telling them apart in the few weeks we had both of them. The other is now Grace’s special friend who sleeps on her pillow and purrs and patiently accepts all her affections.

But they’re Not Nettle.

Grief is a funny thing. It’s unpredictable, unreliable, inconsistent, and it keeps its own schedule. One minute you’re eating dinner after a satisfying day of crafting, looking forward to watching a movie of your own choosing while the rest of the family plays that annoying D&D game you don’t care for, and the next you’re sobbing your eyes out missing the cat that died 363 days earlier.
And the rest of the family has (apparently) moved on. Probably.  
But sometimes grief looks like a small black cat.

I always remind the kids at times like this that we’re supposed to feel this way about death. That death is profoundly unnatural. Wrong in every way. We weren’t designed for death. We weren’t designed for a world that has death in it. The world wasn’t designed to have death in it.
And yet, here we are. Longing to be delivered from the bondage of corruption into the glorious liberty of the children of God. (Romans 8:21 NKJV)

Because what else can we do?

I saw this quote on Facebook the other day - unattributed, so I am sorry for not giving credit where credit is due, but it sums up my feelings perfectly.

“He cried. He knew Lazarus was dead before he got the news. But still, he cried. He knew Lazarus would be alive again in moments. But still, He cried. He knew death here is not forever. He knew eternity and the kingdom better than anyone else could. Yet He wept. Because this world is full of pain and regret and loss and depression and devastation. He wept because knowing the end of the story doesn’t mean you can’t cry at the sad parts.“

So go ahead and cry, Grace. Cry for the small black cat. Jesus did.