[SB] Sabbath Blessing

[Molly Wolf]

Calvin

Calvin missed me while I was gone. So did Hobbes and Maggie, of 
course, and they were lonely and scared, especially when Ken and 
Stefen came in to demolish the bathroom: two large and noisy guys 
invading their space. By the time I got back, the bathroom was down 
to lath and dusty emptiness; Maggie was clearly traumatized, and 
Calvin and Hobbes were invisible, having fled to the basement and safety.

Since then, the bathroom's been drywalled, taped, mudded, and primed 
and the cats are -- well, not quite back to normal, but at least 
reassured. They take turns demanding attention; Maggie sticks close 
to me, and Calvin appears only when the guys leave. But it's the 
weekend, and the guys aren't here, so Calvin emerges and lays a 
delicate black paw on my lap and chirps: "mummy pick up?"

I pick him up, folding his long legs and tail in until he's a compact 
bundle, surprisingly heavy for his slenderness (that's the Siamese in 
him) and he purrs and proodles richly as I stroke him. He 
reciprocates by washing my hand.

Cats have the reputation of being aloof, and some are, but not mine. 
They are all loving in their separate ways. Hobbes has the golden 
retriever personality of the orange tabby, laid back and mildly 
neurotic; everyone is his friend. Maggie, as a tortoiseshell, is more 
demanding and particular; she requires to be held only on her own 
terms and only when she asks -- but she nestles up against my feet 
every night, as a matter of inherent rights, and when she's scared, 
as when the guys are working on the bathroom, she hovers close.

But Calvin is mine and I am Calvin's, and no other human being will 
do for him. He knows and likes my sons, and he's been known to appear 
(if rarely) for other people, after they've been around for a while, 
but I am his person. If I'm away, he cries with an ear-piercing howl. 
He doesn't spend a lot of time on my lap, but lap-time is crucial to him.

I think animals and babies model love in ways that the rest of us 
just can't seem to manage. There's a purity and simplicity to 
Calvin's love for me (and mine for him). It has no complications, no 
expectations (well, food, water, and a tended cat box!), no 
equivocation. It's very simple. It isn't clever or pretentious. It 
isn't self-admiring. It doesn't speak of art or intellect. It's very 
embodied, very physical. It's just plain love, for no other reason 
than I'm his person and he's my cat.

It's founded on the deepest sort of trust. I've had this cat since he 
was two months old and the size of a medium squirrel, who, when he 
folded himself up, would fit into the palm of one hand. We snuggled 
through his gangly bat-eared adolescence. I have, so far as he knows, 
always been here for him; I can be reliably counted upon to top up 
the kibble  and to let him out or in upon request. (Mind you, 
Calvin's requests are put in a piercing NOW!!! howl that could cut 
glass.) I am reliably there for him, except when I've gone away -- 
and then I always come back.

This is the sort of love that I should be modelling in my dealings 
with God: that utter trust that God is there and looking after me, 
and even if he feels far away at times, I can count on him to come 
back. I can howl to him and he will come rescue me. I can trust that 
he will provide what I need. I can trust him to be as steadfast 
towards me as I am towards Calvin, as loving, as reliable.

In fact, I don't do this very well. I'm more skittish with God, not 
quite trusting, uncertain whether his love can withstand my doubts 
and fears. This is such a screwed-up world; how can God be in charge? 
I've done enough suffering and watched enough suffering to know that 
if God is preplanning all this stuff, that's not a god I could worship.

We blame God for the ill in this world, conveniently forgetting how 
much of it is our own doing. We expect God to save us from all harm, 
ignoring our own vulnerability and mortality. God doesn't mind. God 
knows where we're coming from. But it's not God's problem; it's ours.

Calvin teaches me again. He has a will of his own, that cat; he alone 
knows why he tried to get up the chimney and had to be rescued. He 
can be loudly ambivalent. He insists on charging out into the winter 
landscape and needs to charge right back in again. Despite his 
lifelong security, he is a skitty kitty, apt to panic easily. There 
are times when I want to fuss him and he doesn't want to be fussed, 
and he jumps off my lap and stalks off, long tail twitching, 
independent and offended.

And I still love him. And I know that he still loves me, as best he 
can. After all, I am human. He is a cat.

I have to remember what Paul said about the love of God, and remember 
that the words fit me as well as Calvin:

"For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor 
rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor 
height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to 
separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord."

Off you go, little one. You're as safe in my love as we all are in 
the love of God.