I know as a believer in Jesus I’m supposed to be able to look beyond “this mortal veil” and treat death as a mere “address change”.
Well, I can’t.
Death is the enemy and I do not experience it as simply a transition from one state to another.
The last enemy to be abolished and put to an end is death.
~I Corinthians 15:26 AMP
Death is a reminder of all that is wrong with this earth. It’s a reminder that sin is costly. It’s a reminder that this world is not my true home.
It’s just plain wrong!
I hated death long before I counted my own son among the casualties.
Living on a farm, we have buried everything from domestic livestock to random wildlife that wandered up, wounded and we tried to save. I have hatched eggs found in disturbed nests, loved on baby rabbits, squirrels, deer and woodchucks, nursed abandoned kittens, lambs and goat kids. Many of them didn’t survive and every one took a bit of my heart when they breathed their last.
I have said “good-bye” to my 99 year old aunt, my grandmothers, my grandfathers and my own son.
There is nothing pretty about death. It wasn’t in God’s original plan and I hate it.
Lately, I’ve been worrying about my “therapy” cat-Roosevelt. He’s aging. And all things being equal, he won’t last much longer.
He sat in my lap as I recovered from numerous surgeries and hospitalizations.
And he stayed with me as I received concerned family and friends when Dominic ran ahead to Heaven. I don’t know what I would have done without his warm weight holding me in the chair when all I wanted to do was run away and hide.
He has been a compassionate companion in many sad and lonely moments-never asking for a thing and giving so much with his presence and unconditional love.
Every night he sleeps beside me, snuggled down tight against my neck, purring peacefully.
But he’s getting old and I am becoming fearful that I don’t have too many more years left with him. I hate that most nights I drift off to sleep thinking he won’t be here much longer.
And then I feel guilty.
Because the death of my cat (when it happens) can’t begin to touch the depth of pain of the death of my son. It seems, though, that every death taps that wounded spot in my soul.
But every death-whether a person or an animal I love-opens the floodgate of sadness I work so very hard to keep behind the dam.
I know I’m not supposed to borrow trouble from tomorrow and I work hard not to do that.
I’m working hard to cherish each moment with everyone I love without worrying that it may be one of the last.
It’s a fine line I walk every day.