Yesterday

“What is that?” Adam asks. Even though I know he is yelling, I can barely hear him over the downpour as I wait in the car. He’s frozen in his tracks on our back porch and no longer moving towards the back door where he was headed to collect a last few items before we head to the first night of revival worship at Mt. Vinson where I serve as pastor. He asks a second time, and because he still hasn’t started moving I jump out of the car fearing my good luck of never having to deal with a snake at my beautiful country parsonage has just run out. Rounding the corner I see it, sitting there right in front of our back door, blocking the entrance into our home.

Whew! Not a snake. Just a cat. I scold Adam for scaring me to death, and we walk together to shoo the cat away. Its insistent mewing tells us it is not moving anywhere anytime soon. Fair enough. I wouldn’t want to walk home in the rain either. So, we open the garage door to offer a little refuge, leaving it cracked open, trusting that when the storm lets up our little feline visitor will find its way home. We head off to revival, and I don’t really give it a second thought.

A two-hour worship service and Ruby Tuesday dinner later, we pull back into the garage, turn off the car, open the door, and “Meow!” I think, “You have got to be kidding me!” The cat darts around our feet, follows us to the door, and—even though I know you don’t feed a stray cat unless you want to have a new pet—I tell Adam to go get some water. Maybe the kitty is just scared from the storm. Rain is still falling. It’s dark now. A little water is the least we can offer. Adam comes back with water and milk. We place the bowls in the garage, keep the door cracked. I pray that a snake won’t make its home on the warm cement floor and trust our cat crasher to return our kindness by playing garage guardian overnight.

As I fall asleep Sunday night, I think fleetingly back to my sermon that morning, and I just have to laugh. Since I first started preaching in 2011, God has never let me preach or teach about the Good Samaritan without an accompanying opportunity to show mercy sometime in the next few days. Seriously…not once! And I haven’t always passed the test.

Biblical scholar AJ Levine, who I was lucky enough to have as my New Testament professor at Vandy, teaches about the parable in this challenging way:

“We should think of ourselves as the person in the ditch and then ask, ‘Is there anyone, from any group, about whom we’d rather die than acknowledge, “She offered help” or “He showed compassion”?’ More, is there any group whose members might rather die than help us? If so, then we know how to find the modern equivalent for the Samaritan.” (Amy-Jill Levine, The Misunderstood Jew (San Francisco: Harper Collins, 2006), 148-149).

My Samaritan is a cat. That sounds flippant, and…really…it is. But it’s also not not the truth. I’ve only loved one cat in my entire life, and I didn’t have a choice. She was part of my family before I was. And while I loved Boo, she definitely got a pass. At a birthday sleepover in 1^st grade, I’m pretty sure I almost got sent home because I was following the family’s cat around on all fours barking at it like a dog rather than spending time with the other partygoers. And sometime between 3^rd grade (when Boo died) and 8^th grade (when at another sleepover at a friend’s house I finally realized my itchy eyes, runny nose, and scratchy throat were all her cat’s fault), I developed a cat allergy, and that sealed the deal. #dogpersonforlife

Monday morning dawns, and I walk into the garage. Look around. No cat in sight. “Thank you, Jesus,” I pray, “I hope it found its way home.” Just as I reach down to pick up the bowls of water and milk and begin to break into a praise dance…“Meow.” From behind some boxes under the built-in shelves, two little green eyes peer out at me. Hmph! Dear kitty, you are overstaying your welcome. Returning with fresh water, I decide…if this cat is still here this afternoon when there have been hours of clear skies for it to finds its way home, that’s when we can find it a cat-loving foster home or a safe place at a shelter. I share my plans with Adam, and we both head off to work.

On my drive home, Adam calls, “Cat’s gone.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Just double check. Look behind the boxes on the…”

“MEOW!”

Adam hangs up and coaxes the cat from its hiding space. As he starts to take pictures to send to some friends whose hearts need a kitty, he sees it. Gaping wounds on the cat’s side. At least, that’s what he tells me. To be honest, I don’t believe him. Adam, the love of my life, can catastrophize situations. It comes from the love we share. Loyal till the day he dies, Adam just wants to protect the ones he loves. He imagines all the worst-case scenarios, building defenses to keep us safe…just in case. So, when he says “gaping wounds,” I hear “a couple of scratches.”

When I get home, I see for myself. He wasn’t catastrophizing this time. If anything, he undersold it. I see poor kitty’s insides through the wounds some other predator ripped in its side. But it’s late, and I don’t know anywhere open to take it. So, Adam and I go buy a can of salmon cat food and a cat carrier we’ll only use once. We go to bed, and I’m already dreading tomorrow.

In the morning, Adam stops by the vet on his way to work. They confirm what I already know. There’s only one thing to do. I tell Adam to tell the vet I won’t be able to make it there until the afternoon. I’m already crying.

“I have back-to-back client sessions. Do you want me to cancel and come to be with you?”

No. That doesn’t seem responsible. I can do this. I don’t even like cats. I’m allergic.

When I finally get home again to pick up the cat, I can barely see through my tears. What I do see is that the cat is already dying. I realize he’s been dying since he showed up Sunday. The cat that darted around our feet just 24 hours ago now wobbles to his own when I walk into the garage. His back legs aren’t responding to the signals his braind is sending to stand and walk. He’s tired. He’s weak. He’s worn.

I guide him into a cardboard box, having left the stupid cat carrier I bought in Adam’s trunk the night before, exhausted. I put him in the front seat. I don’t know how I make the drive. His meows join in symphony with my prayers of “I’m so sorry, kitty” and “Help me, Jesus” as my tears rival the rains of the past few days.

As I walk into the vet office, everyone stops in their tracks. They know something is wrong. I squeak out, “My husband came by this morning…”

“Westmoreland?” the lady behind the desk asks.

I shake my head yes. I set the cat and the box down. I make out a check. Not quite two days’ wages. More like half a day’s wages. (Well, at least before Uncle Sam gets his cut.) But I played innkeeper for two days, so maybe God gave me a Samaritan discount.

They ask if I want to sign a waiver to leave, but how can I leave now? They show us to a room. It feels like it takes forever. Every time the vet comes in, he reminds me that this is the right thing to do. I keep saying, “He’s a stray. I don’t even like cats. I’m allergic.” After the kitty falls asleep from the first shot, they try and try to find a vein. I realize they won’t. I’ve been giving the cat water, but I know how much he’s left behind. He’s too dehydrated. The vet tells me they will have to inject the medicine directly into his heart. “Is that okay?” he asks.

No, none of this feels okay, but I shake my head yes.

A few moments later, the vet checks with his stethoscope. He nods his head. It’s finished. I stand to leave. “Don’t charge her,” he tells the vet tech. I just keep walking. I don’t stop to collect my check. I don’t even care if they still cash it.

I don’t know how I survive the drive home. I feel myself curling inward, embracing the emotions rising in me, my own sadness that I so quickly, so often push back down. But not today. I play the Enneagram songs by Sleeping At Last, knowing the songs will help me feel my sadness more fully. Walking in the house, I let Adam hold me as I sob. I crawl into bed. Not my bed, but the guest bed that still smells like my mommy from her 4^th of July visit. I pull my dog Hadewijch close to my chest, feel her beating heart.

Soon, I’ll have to get up. I’ll have to dry my tears. I’ll have to put my big girl panties on, get in the car, and drive to the last night of revival.

“It’s just all so ridiculous,” I think. “I don’t even like cats. I’m allergic.”

I’ve only loved two cats in my life. I didn’t have a choice.