Milo

In case my head was cold....

He was the one clamoring from the cage, looking pleadingly into my eyes.  I hadn't wanted a tabby cat, but I couldn't say no to this one.  So he came home with me.  My Milo.

He was my day-to-day friend when I didn't know anyone at my new job in my new city in my lonely apartment after graduating college.  At the time it felt like a very grown-up thing to do--have this little creature who was wholly dependent on me for his welfare.  But really, he played a big part in taking care of me when I'd come home after a long day at work, coming right to me and showing me that I was loved and had been missed.

He weathered the addition of my sister-in-law's cat, Emmy, like a champ, even though Emmy was skittish and, if human, would have merited a DSM diagnosis, I'm sure.  They were companions in pools of floor-sunshine and when she died on Super Bowl Sunday three years ago, I know he missed her at least a little.

 From that first apartment, he moved into another, before I made the leap into home-ownership.  No matter where, he made himself right at home.  One of the ways I knew my now-husband was a keeper was when Milo incredibly didn't cause Mark's allergies to flare.  I had developed a horrible pit in my stomach when Mark told me on our first date that he was allergic to cats, thinking, "this could be a deal-breaker...."  But soon enough, Milo had happily accepted Mark into his world, and it was good.

And then we moved to Nashville, where Owen was born.  As soon as we assembled the stroller, Milo hopped in, as if, "I'm ready, let's go!"  I'll never forget leaving the apartment the night I went into labor with Owen.  Milo was sitting on the shelf by the door, wondering, I'm sure, where we were going at such a late hour.  I thought, "Oh, buddy, life is about to change for you, for sure!"

Ready to go.

And it did, but he took it in stride.  But that's not even right.  He owned life as a fraternal-feline.  Where most cats would quickly ascertain that this new little person has grabby hands and no understanding of "gentle," and do everything to avoid contact, Milo chose the opposite tack and plopped down in the midst of whatever Owen, and then our subsequent kids, were doing.  Over the years, he endured stroller rides, less-than-careful-handling, doll clothes, and interrupted naps.

We'll never forget the nine days during the summer of 2003 when an oblivious (though sweet) babysitter accidentally let him out of the house while we were gone.  I guess we hadn't warned her stringently enough about his stealth escape maneuvers, and he got free.  I'm sure, for a time, he was in heaven as he explored the hilly wooded area around our suburban Nashville apartment.  We put up posters and walked the surrounding area, calling for him.  It broke my heart, and I was pretty resigned to him being gone.  But then, one evening, as Mark and I sat in the basement, a small face appeared in the walk-out door.  Startled, I screamed, but quickly recognized my boy.   I had to climb several steps down the hill behind our building to coax him in.  He looked like he'd endured quite a time.  His poor little front paws--declawed--were bloody as I'm sure he had done a lot of climbing.  He got a lot of cuddles in the ensuing days and weeks.  You'd think he would've learned his lesson, but until several months ago, he'd still try and slip past us every once in awhile.

He never was good at learning from mistakes, though.  Even after being sprayed repetitively by the water bottle, he continued to try and join us for dinner each night.  Despite getting locked out of the bedroom, if left free for the night, he'd still come and either knock things off the bedside table or nip at my ear in order to wake me in the early hours of the morning.  I guess his love for us outweighed the expected consequence?

Who knows.  In any case, our kitty started winding down a little over a year ago.  Long story short, probably lymphoma causing GI issues.  We gave him daily pills which helped, until they didn't.  We started talking to the kids about his health several weeks ago, knowing the time was near.  Sunday night, it became clear that the time was now.

So last evening, I held my sweet, mischievous, loving, patient, curious boy-cat as he died.  This morning, I sent my kids off to school and am now alone in this house, as I have been many days.  But today, it is subtly more lonely.  Because I didn't have to wonder if Milo had drank some of the water from my coffee cup while I stood at the bus-stop with the kids.  Because every time I walk into the laundry room, there's no litter box, which I thought I'd be so happy about, but I'm not.  (Yet, at least.)  Because I walk into the kitchen to get another cup of coffee and there are the paw-print molds the vet gave us last night as keepsakes for the kids.  There's no persistent meow telling me, "it's time to eat," or just, "here I am."  He's not here, and I miss him.  We all will.

Grace at the Sports Park

I was so happy to get out for a run today.  With the kids on break and then all of us trapped at home in cold and snow, my workouts were relegated to a run or walk on the treadmill staring at Netflix (Call the Midwife and Blackfish) or reading a book.  It was certainly not a terrible setup, and I enjoyed the lazy mornings with my growing-up-too-fast babies.  However, my swirling, introverted mind was pushing back at the constant stimulation of kids, insisting, "I need some space!"

So, it was with relief that I sent them on their way this morning and headed out on my usual route through the neighborhood and down  the road to a nearby park.  I was loving the quiet in my head that left plenty of room to have a much-needed conversation with God.

I've had this unsettled, uncomfortable feeling--like I'm wearing clothes that are too heavy and a little too tight--for quite some time.  I suppose it worked its way into my conscious mind after the visitation of my childhood friend right before Christmas.  He had died in a car crash, and though I hadn't seen him in years, the thudding reality that he was no longer in this world was painful.  My kids were with me at the visitation and saw me crying as I greeted his parents and brother.  My oldest expressed dismay at my tears, but I explained that my sadness was a sign that I grew up with a lot of love and good friends in my life.  He seemed to understand that, but my own words haunted me over the next few days.

I have been well-loved, and that realization shone a bright jarring light on some ways in which I am not loving well as I live my life.  One situation in particular has been weighing on me; I know I should be doing a better job of demonstrating the love of Christ, but I have let myself be so overcome with anger and resentment that I just can't seem to find a way through.   My internal dialogue has been active:  it's like, "yeah, I get, it, Jesus didn't hold back His love from me when He went all out and died on the cross, so I have no business withholding love from anyone!"  And my head is full of all the reasons why I need to get my act together--"do unto others", "judge not lest ye be judged", the whole "Good Samaritan"-thing, "love your neighbor", etc.

I know, too, that the anger and resentment are simply the manifestation of sin in my heart, that there's something--a lie--behind them that I am holding onto.  I'm well acquainted with the sinfulness of my heart that values my own comfort and order so much that I don't trust the God of the Universe, who took the original chaos and made it into, well, everything, to take care of my minute, tiny little life.  Sigh.  We're working on that, God and I.

But I can't wait until that sin is gone before I try to love like Jesus, and that's where I was this morning, finally able to lay it out there with God--"Help me!  What is wrong with me?  I know I dishonor You every time I give a cold shoulder, but I can't seem to do any better!  Please!  I NEED YOU!"   So, a couple miles in, I reached the park, where I have had countless talks with God while I run, and softly, just as I passed the shelter and started around the playground, it hit me in the form of memories, of times really not so long ago, when there were good things in the relationship which is now in such turmoil--there was caring and fumbling attempts to relate and warm feelings.  And then memories of an even shorter time ago, when there was a crisis, and I was able to reach out and hold a hand and mean it, to hug and even kiss a cheek--to show love, because I felt love.  In His mercy I saw how it's been and who I've been before.

I felt such peace in those memories, and relief to know that I did, indeed, have it in me.  I recalled how, during that crisis time, I told friends that it was "by the grace of God" that I had been able to love well.  I see now how true that was.

God didn't tell me anything I didn't already know this morning, but He was so gentle and gracious in His reminder that it--this life, my love, everything--is ALL by His grace and not my squeezing, frustrated efforts.  It was as if He said to me--"I know you have it in you, and it is worth pursuing, so keep at it; I'll help you."  

I have no illusions that, the next time I'm faced with this particular part of our life, I'll be breezing by with a completely open heart, but I feel so much more comfortable with the possibility of it, and truly hopeful.  I feel so much strength in my humanity today, but only because of my faith in Jesus and His strength and Spirit as it flows into my life.

Zechariah 4:6
Not by might, nor by power, but by my Spirit, says the LORD of hosts.