A dramatic title for the death of a cat isn’t it. Nevertheless, . . .
We knew the cat was going to die. He was living at my parents, but moved to our house this last week. It was probably further away from his brothers and sisters whose exuberance for life was probably a little rough in his weakened condition. I could hardly bear to watch him as he lay on my porch struggling to breathe. I wanted Dad to take him out and shoot him and end his misery, the poor thing. And then last night we found him in the garage on a pile of hats and scarves; Gone. This morning one of the kids dragged him outside to a spot easily visible from my laundry porch and I could feel the panic start to set in.
I want to cry and curl up into a ball. Fear seems to be the predominant emotion. I’m afraid to look death in the face. My heart feels exposed again. I’m vulnerable and weak. I’m not afraid to die. I’m afraid to be the one left alive again. I’m afraid to be the one who bears the burden of living. It would be so much easier to die.
Oh God! You are not the God of fear. You are a God who loves me and wants what is best for me. You will protect and provide. You cover me with your wings. You hold me in your arms. My heart can be this vulnerable and exposed as long as you are a great walled fortress around me keeping me safe from the enemy’s darts. Your strength is all I need.
My brother-in-law has removed the cat. I push the panic at my Savior (vent my emotions on my poor computer), take a deep breath, and smile as I go to help my kids get their desks ready for the new school year. I’m facing my future one moment at a time.