Mtr Mary Trainor
Why are you afraid...?
Dear friend,
I met Oona about 12 years ago. My church ran a pet food pantry and conducted a pet-friendly service on Sunday afternoons. Oona came in the company of Cynthia, who had been diagnosed with cancer.
Before I go much further, let me explain. Cynthia was a lovely woman in her forties, growing worse daily with her disease. Out of high emotion and desperate need, she found her way to our service in the company of Oona. Cynthia wanted to rehome her pets before dying, and thought we might help. Oona, her favorite cat, came to live with me. No one knew how old Oona was, except Cynthia knew she was a young adult feline on September 11, 2001.
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Why are you afraid? Jesus asks his disciples in our Office Gospel today from Matthew. Jesus was asleep, a storm approached, and the men with him totally lost their composure, fearing what they believed to be certain death.
They are rebuked by Jesus for their lack of faith. Then he stilled the wind and the water.
Why are we afraid? Why am I afraid?
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I was afraid of Oona for the first 10 years of our relationship. I found her a bit standoffish, she growled when displeased, and moved quickly to nip if I moved my hand too quickly. But here’s the thing: Yes, she did these things, but my interpretation was skewed by Cynthia’s use of the phrase “a bit feral.” I could see Oona only through that lens and interpreted her behavior accordingly.
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Shortly after moving to Tucson, Oona needed her nails trimmed. I dreaded the trip to the vet. I warned the techs over and over that she might bite. When they returned unbloodied and smiling, carrying Oona easily, I asked if it went well. Great, they said, she’s so sweet, purred the whole time. She even played.
Played? Purred? Why had I been afraid?
Because of the word “feral.” I had allowed my fear to embellish all the things this word might mean. And it limited my perspective, and limited the relationship I was able to have with her. With this newfound awareness, we have enjoyed the last few years of her life together. Oona blessed me with her quirky, but loving, nature.
She had been slipping consistently over the past few months. She remained a hearty eater, but took to staying under my bed the rest of the time. Each afternoon I came home, I was fearful it would be THE day. Why was I afraid? I wasn’t sure I would know the right thing to do.
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Thursday night, somewhere in her 22nd year of life, Oona let me know she needed help to pass peacefully from this world. It is the hardest part of these relationships, but—like the disciples in the boat—I wasn’t alone.
Mtr Mary