My house is covered in sadness

My house is covered in sadness. We are wearing it like a cloak, and it is clogging the veins of our hearts worse than cholesterol. I get a hassle from a friend of mine that I never post blog entries about, or pictures of, our cats. Truth be told, I’m still shaking generations of disgusted-by-cats relatives, so I’m a little under-cover about being a fan. I have tried to stay in the canine-club, sheepishly confessing to dog-lovers with a shrug, “Well, I married into cats.” Which is true. But it’s probably time I fess up that, actually, I really do like cats. I’m a convert. They are easier to take care of, and their affection is not cheap like any old Bailey or Buddy. Well, except my Taz cat who is more like a dog than a cat. I’m a convert because I happen to have a really amazing cat—he comes when you whistle for him and he does high fives. He likes to wrestle and when I pick him up by the arm-pits and swing his dangling body back and forth while calling out, “Tick Tock Taz” and then set him down, he comes back immediately for more rough-housing. Yeah, Taz is a dog-cat.

But I’m also converted because of my husband and his precious, precious Dan. He loves this cat. He got Dan before me, and sometimes I wonder if he loves Dan just a little a bit more. That’s tongue-in-cheek, of course. But I can say there are very few two-legged creatures Tom likes as well as he likes as Dan. They have bonded. Dan’s warmed up to strangers a bit over the years, but originally, only a handful of folks ever even got to see Dan and only Tom or I could get him to purr. Well, I say, “get.” I have to work at it—bribing with turkey or holding him only one particular way (Dan is very much a cat-cat) or petting his chin just so (again cat-cat). But Tom gets Dan to purr by simply walking in the room. Or saying his name. One time, when Tom was away for a work conference, the only single time Dan got his motor revving (cat-lovers know this engine sound) was over speaker-phone.

In fact, when Tom was away, Dan pretty much went into mourning. I came home one time to hear him running down the stairs and speed around the corner only to take one look at me and sigh (yes, literally sigh) before turning around and slowly climb the stairs to resume sleeping on the corner of the bed until the more worthwhile human came home.

Seeing Tom and Dan interact makes me realize just how great some cats—hey, I’m not a fan of ALL cats—can be as pets. Which makes it all the more miserable that we are now at the point of palliative care for Dan and have spent the morning researching euthanasia theories and pet cremations.

sigh.

This all started a few months ago with some breathing problems and a congestive-heart-failure diagnosis. Yes, for a cat. He’s even on Lasix—you with geriatric family members know this as part of a regimen of old-people drugs for unhealthy fluid-retention. If he were Aunt Bessie, he’d be wheeling around with an oxygen tank and wheezing. We’ve watched Dan go from an 18 pound purr-machine to a now 10 pound old-man cat. And now even the Lasix is doing nothing and who wants to give a pill to a cat that won’t even eat turkey or purr for Tom anyway? And so this coming week will be a long one, likely now the loss of Dan, Danny Boy, Dan the Man cat, el gato from Mancato, most affectionately known as Chingy. My house is covered in sadness.

Jumping in

totally. over. whelming. This is what I’m thinking as I stare into the drawer.

There is a lot of stuff in my new office. Not my stuff, though there’s some of that. Mine are mostly boxes of books packed away in the previous homes of Grey Goose and Smirnoff. While they are the perfect size, I did question the logic of raiding the ABC store to pack up my office in NC as I carried vodka box after vodka box loaded with theology books into the new church.

So there are those.

But then there’s a drawer of paper clips and capless pens. An old button—was it the previous minister’s? Was it from someone’s dress in 1982? There’s a bolt—should I keep it? Pack it in a box marked “might be important”? In another drawer, there are chocolate coins in a pretty little pouch. Are they from 1982? The shelves house old issues of “These days” devotionals and every copy of the Sunday school curriculum for the last 8 years. There is a bag that says, “Bells for Christmas Eve or throw away.” What does that mean? THOSE are your options?!

I went in early to get something done—to find a recent copy of the Book of Order and my Robert’s Rules, to sign in to my new email, to maybe do some sermon prep.

But instead, I am staring around wondering about all this stuff. And questioning the logic of my first act as the new associ… interim minister (will I ever stop calling myself the associate minister?)—to moderate a Session meeting.

That, and preach on Sunday. Preach on Sunday after working the busiest week of tax season as a secretary for four days with precisely one day in the church office—my first day in the office. Do I really think I’ll get sermon prep done?

I keep “joking” that this is like jumping into the deep end. Now I think maybe it’s like jumping into the deep end of one of those wave pools at a water park. Or standing on the shore of Lake Michigan in 5 foot waves and an undertow. Sometimes it’s a rush; sometimes you have to walk back toward the shallow shore to catch your breath.

I’m over-philosophizing but I still like the analogy. In this moment, I thought I’d be thrilled to jump in the waves. I’m a little surprised to be clinging to the shore. I’m not too worried but I’m curious about it.

Turns out my first official duty wasn’t moderating the Session meeting, btw. A few minutes before the meeting, as I was stepping into the ladies room, the head of property caught me by the elbow and said in a quiet tone, “Ah, well, we just had to put in a new commode—can you give me a report?” perfect.