On Advent & Absent Friends

The other day Posey reported that Forest is missing. This made me think about the time, years ago, that my old cat went missing for days because he got stuck the neighbor's garage. I remember how miserable I was. I remember having given up hope then hearing him crying out at 2AM. I went outside and listened. As soon as I realized where he was I woke my sister up and made her call our neighbor. My parents were away somewhere. My sister did not hesitate to rescue my cat.

I keep hoping that they find Forest because I know exactly what they are going through.

Tigger was a Christmas present when I was 12. He was the best cat a boy could have. All through High School, I never needed an alarm clock. Instead, Tigger would wake me up every morning at 6AM by standing on me and meowing for breakfast. When I would come home during college breaks he would always greet me with the "where have you been?" look before hoping on my lap and reminding everyone that my lap was his personal space. He lived with my parents for years after Slick and I got married. He might have moved in with us. Alas, it just wasn't possible. After years of separation, I became horribly allergic to him. Besides, by that point he was old and set in his ways.

Tonight, I was sorting through some old photos using Picasa when I found this picture of Tigger at my parents during Christmas of 2000. In the same batch, I also found a picture of my Grandmother, iDad's mom. Neither of them are with us now.

Tigger
Best Cat A Boy Ever Had

The holidays are a bittersweet time. They bring back joyful memories and fill us with sorrow.

Advent, the weeks leading up to Christmas, is a paradox. It's about hope, yet it's also like the gravedigger in Hamlet. Death lingers over Christ's birth the way it lingers over our holiday decorating. We get closer to celebrating the birth of Christ, but it's also a long prelude to Good Friday. Every year, I listen to Handel's Messiah when we trim the tree. This year, my fingers hung over the butterfly ornaments that once adorned my grandmother's room in the nursing home. As I hung them on the tree, I thought of her and I thought of Karen. I remembered Posey's phone call last year telling me Karen had died and realize what a bittersweet Christmas this will be.

"The voice of him who crieth in the wilderness, prepare ye the way of the lord."

Was the voice of the prophet the sound of a courageous trumpet or the sound of a scared and hungry cat? Sometimes, I wonder. But then the words of the prophets come to me in song.

"Comfort ye my people."

I think of those words and I know that everything will be alright. Absent friends are not so far away. Pain and sorrow turns to grief and hope. That's the message of Christmas. The foregone conclusion is not a Shakespearean room full of dead bodies. It is Easter morning. It's my hope for lost family and friends. I listen to the prophet sing those words of comfort and I know we need not be afraid. I hear it clearly and recognize the voice for what it truly is...

The voice of the prophet is a big sister who rescues your cat.