1. Old-fashioned sorrows are (maybe) easier to bear in old-fashioned settings

On Father’s Day I sat in on a class of seven-year olds at church. Before the lesson they each get a turn to say whatever they want, in hopes that they can then listen for six minutes straight. I used mine to ask them, these kids who all live within a block or two of our house, if they had seen my cat, the cat we adopted last September as an orange-striped seven-week old and named Skippyjon Jones.

He was not my cat. I made it a point not to feed him so that he would love the girls and Tom for feeding him. I only let him sleep on my pillow at the very beginning, because I felt sorry for taking him from his mother (and I had just miscarried. What can I say?) When he came to me for affection, I petted him briefly; I never cuddled. The last time I saw him, Friday afternoon before Father’s Day, I teased him about lazing in the sun on the rug in the basement, but I had things in my hands, so I didn’t bend down to stroke him him as he stretched. I didn’t even write about him on this blog, though Tom said often that he was the best birthday present I’d ever given him, and the girls’ happiness at finally having a cat made me feel mean for denying them so long.

The boys in the class eagerly told me that they had seen my cat, dead on the side of the road, just the day before, on a corner Tom had passed in his searching several times. I had to leave the room — to cry in the bathroom and to barge into the men’s meeting to confirm with one of the dads.

I cried incessantly, uncontrollably that day; by evening I had to gulp great glasses of water to replace all the fluid my baby probably needed to swim in. I blamed my pregnancy hormones, I told myself it was stupid and I shouldn’t upset the kids with my irrational grief. Still, I cried.

It got dark around 9:30 pm, and we sat around the kitchen table eating the specially-planned rhubarb crumble I’d finally thrown together. We had one lit candle; we couldn’t really see each other’s faces. With one candle in the center of the table, we gathered close, even though we still couldn’t really see. My daughters believe in heaven, and Jesus; I told them (and myself; they were easily convinced) that we have to remember that Skippy is happy now, we’re just sad because we miss him, but he is happy.

Then I told them about my young Aunt Jodi, who died when I was 11, of kidney failure. Jodi let us all sleep on her twin waterbed and had hundreds of nail polish colors to choose from. She had a goat, three horses, Ceasar the noble golden retriever, several cats, and probably other animals I don’t remember; she was studying to be a vet though she’d been sick for years. When she died my sister and I inherited Bonnie Jean Monster. We took pretty good care of her, though not her kittens, which is another story and a big part of my reluctance to have (or love) a pet again.

Avery was quick: “So now Jodi is taking care of Skippy for us in heaven?”

We trooped upstairs, all five of us, set the candle on the edge of the sink while we brushed our teeth and then trooped back downstairs, two flights of stairs this time to the unfinished basement, where Tom and I settled into our bed and the girls snuggled in the nest of blankets they’d arranged a few feet away on the floor at the beginning of our fast.

For once there were no cries of “she hit me” or “she took my pillow.” There were “I love you, goodnight”s and a few “I miss Skippy”s. Then it was completely dark, and completely quiet. I fall asleep quickly these days. But that night I spent several minutes, alone with my family, wondering why something so common hurt so much.