Let it rain

Winter in South Florida is usually the dry season, but yesterday morning I drove to church in torrents of the wet stuff. It was the kind of rainstorm that creates mini-flash floods in the road. Typically for a Sunday morning the downtown streets were deserted, making it safe to weave my way around the standing water on S. Dixie. The rain was appropriate though. A preview of the day. The somberness of the skies were a good match to the somberness of my soul in response to the apocalyptic suffering being endured on an island the same distance from where I live as Charlotte, North Carolina.

As soon as the service began I was fighting back the tears. Fighting them back as we sang "He's got the whole world in His hands", changing the fourth verse to "He's got everyone in Haiti in His hands." Fighting them back as we recited the Apostles' Creed, after the worship leader reminded us that these familiar words describe a set of truths upon which all of history turns. "I believe in the resurrection of the body and the life everlasting. Amen." If I didn't believe those truths, I'd have to conclude that the world really is ruled by cruel fate and meaninglessness. More tears as we prayed for a member of our church who's been on the ground since Thursday leading a disaster response team. It was especially comforting to be in church yesterday.

Later, more tears (this time I let 'em flow) when I flipped on 60 Minutes to see images of bodies by the score being scooped up and loaded into dumptrucks enroute to a mass unmarked grave, and doctors using a rusty hacksaw to amputate limbs because nothing else was available. "Civil War medicine" the reporter called it. Meanwhile, at home, our cat Gioia -- a seven-year resident of our house whose name was inspired by CSL's Surprised by Joy -- was, we feared, slowly dying. A minor event in the big scheme of things yes, but one that touched my heart more than I thought it would. Truth be told, my wife Shannon is more the animal lover than I am. Gioia hadn't been herself for a week or so, but we thought she'd snap out of it once the unseasonably cold weather passed. Plus, she'd always been a finicky and uneven eater. By Saturday it was clear something was badly wrong. At the pet emergency center they gave her IV fluids, antibiotics and did a test to rule out diabetes. The vet was reasonably confident she might bounce back with continued antibiotics and force feeding, which Shannon faithfully administered throughout the day yesterday.

We went to bed hoping we could get her in first thing today to see our regular vet, but she didn't look good. In the middle of the night something woke me up and I went to check on her. She was half concealed beneath some book shelves and struggling to breathe. The most she could manage in response to her name was a slight twitch of the tail. I woke up Shannon and told her I didn't think she was going to make it til morning. I won't lie -- we cried, and cried some more, trying to decide what to do. Finally, around 3:00 this morning Shannon packed her up and took her back to the 24-hour animal hospital. The caring and compassionate vet on duty (bless him) confirmed our fear that whatever it was was too far gone to reverse. His best guess was the late stages of cancer. Looking back there may have been warning signs, but we'll never know. Since our son was born we hadn't been as attentive as we used to be. Early this morning Gioia went to sleep for the last time.

Even as I smile at the joyful morning antics of my 11-month-old, a part of me is still crying.