Author: prayerfullife7

I feared the worst when that beautiful little beast came victoriously from out of the woods,

I saw violence, murder and death in her wake. Surely, she had conquered, she had vanquished, she had torn flesh and drawn blood somewhere in there. I know her ways, and the look in her eyes, and her desire, placed deep within by instinct.

But even so, I hoped and I waited for the bunnies to come out, as they always do lately; two little bunnies. They, an answer to my prayers. For years I’ve waited for them to visit our yard, and to make their home with us. How I love the innocent mammals, warm and soft, furry, gentle, eating our lawn in docile tranquility. I’ve watched them these past few days, perhaps a week or two, and my heart has burst with happiness. They are finally here with us. My dear little friends finally made it and are dwelling with us. It is a blessing, however short-lived. But joy rarely drives me to the pen or the keyboard with the same desperate compulsion as does pain, and in my suffering I now write. I have no other answer for death and the recurring terror of that final end.

I found my little friend where I expected to, sideways in the dirt under the trees, eye staring vacantly at the sky, his sable body inert and cold. A red gash just behind his ear, running ragged down his neck; the mark of a cat. She didn’t even eat him. She isn’t hungry, she is well fed, a housecat with a knack for killing just for the fun of it. My, how I hate her.

I buried the bunny in the earth, to the side of Rocco’s Loop Trail, a little trail I made not long ago in memory of my shih-tzu who died and took much of me with him. And after I buried the little creature I picked up two rocks, razor sharp, and heavy in my hand, perfect for throwing; and I went hunting. If I could find that calico I would kill it. Vengeance, a desire placed deep within me by instinct. But it is unlikely that I’ll kill her even when I find her unless I forget the bitter taste of remorse in that moment of opportunity. What other power is there over death but to kill? One grows weary of the weight of one’s impotence. One desires to act instead. Even if it is a futility. But I love cats also. So, what would another dead animal do for me?

Well, I want her to know the pain that she causes me when she kills. And I want God to know. Doesn’t anybody know? If I throw this rock will I get your attention?! Will it dry my tears once for all; and make the anger go away? If only. There is a case for vengeance, but experience shows that it is a weak case indeed.

~FS

If it were only the purple brilliance of the newly blooming periwinkle flowers I would be satisfied, but it is also the shimmering green foliage of the boxwoods, glistening with dew in the morning crispness. These things together are magnificent.

It is the arching branch of the apple tree, reaching, and bowing low over the freshly mown grass. And the morning sunlight, still low in the sky, casting a warm glow through the tree and across the grass, where a lively robin can be seen dancing gently, and bowing quickly over its morning meal, saying a brief prayer before eating a worm.

Veronica cascades over a broken-down wall; and sweet Daphne fragrance drifts upon the breeze, intermingled with…is it viburnum? Osmanthus? Yes. All the floral world is alive now and calling to bees and birds to pollinate.

 
I walk with my dog, slowly, aimlessly, both of us contentedly; neither of us is leashed to anything. My mind is free to wander, and he is enthralled by the base of every tree. With little puffs of warm air he sniffs everything, missing nothing, moving randomly, joyously, from one tree to the next; he is like a tiny steam train, puffing and snorting as he goes, then coming to rest contentedly into the station.—abiding in pleasured stillness, with his head and nose buried deep within worlds unknown to me.

Standing in a forest of flowering currants, surrounded by sword ferns, with bird calls filling the air; all these things working together for the good of man and of beast. We are dwelling, together in an abundance of beauty.

*

Time, like the snow falling, brings a hush in its wake, covering the past in a soft blanket of silence. The sun shines upon us, melting our hearts like the spring thaw, and awakening our consciousness to the bright future unfurling around and within us.

~FS

All of creation groans and is in pain from the beginning until the present moment. Yes. I ran over a beautiful raccoon with my truck this afternoon. One ran out in front of me and I had time to swerve but then another came over the bank, up out of the roadside ditch and I felt and heard it hit the back wheel, twirl up and hit the side of the truck a second time, and in the side mirror I saw its large sable body spin and slump in a heap at the side of the highway. I couldn’t stop for the large semi-truck directly on my tail. I might have tried more evasive maneuvers but for that truck, and not wanting to cause an even larger tragedy. I destroyed that little creature’s life; I ended it. And I caused grief to others. I’ve seen animals mourn their dead. I expect the other, or others if there were more, went to see their dead friend, or their dying friend and they were helpless to do anything for him. I know that feeling. I’ve been there myself with the dead that I have loved. I won’t go into the details of how life drained out of me the rest of the day, but it did, and I became very numb, and I yearned to leave this world myself, but for those I’d leave behind and the sadness that might cause. Life feels like a warzone, each passing moment taking one or another of us randomly, leaving some of us to fight another day. Some people go out of their minds in war, some turn to anything to dull the pain, some go all in and become mercenaries, killers for hire. I understand them all.

But I found a little chapel at the edge of the woods, metaphorically, and I crawled inside and prayed: Lord Jesus Christ have mercy on me. I said this many times, quietly to myself, as I mourned the raccoon. I cried, and I survived another day. In younger years I would have returned to help that little creature, or to bury him. But now I cannot bring myself to see what I’ve done. I can’t see another dead animal, or human, I am reaching my limit. I’m only fifty-five; what shall become of me? It doesn’t matter, the same as will happen to us all, death will find me randomly on the battlefield, tomorrow or next year, or in ten years, but it will happen; and in the meantime all of creation mourns and cries in pain, and I am witness to all their suffering, with nothing but duct tape and baling wire to use to fix the monumental problems that only God himself can fix. But he is acting at leisure. Which I understand, though I don’t, but who am I to argue?

I find it remarkable that living is both clinging to this world and yearning for the next at the same time. Loving life and wanting death. Enduring and fighting for another day, hoping to see the sun rise, desiring to live a little longer, and the next moment reeling from “the terror of knowing what this world’s all about” and wishing we’d never been born. Maybe that’s just me. But to some degree I imagine we all have some similar feelings about our exile here. Lord Jesus have mercy on me. I crouch in my metaphorical chapel, saying my prayers, grateful that night has fallen finally, sorry for the little raccoon, and determined to stay in here and not go outside again. I’ll watch the sun rise through the window and pretend there is a way out, but knowing there isn’t. There is only the way through, as they say; there is nowhere to run. But God is in control, Jesus Christ is risen, and ultimately there is a resurrection. Every story ends in death, but every story also ends in new life. I don’t know this, but I believe it.

~FS