The God Who Knows All Names

I woke up anxious.

I have been at peace since the Easter liturgy, but it’s not surprising that the anxiety trickled back. Healing is not linear. For several days I was certain that God didn’t hate me and was showing me the path of life. That was a beautiful Easter gift. But this morning, the anxiety rushed back in. I was afraid of the vengeful god of the Charismatic renewal. I felt as if Jesus  was angry that the PTSD is still so strong that I can’t go in a confessional, and sometimes not even to Mass. I felt as if I was going to hell.

I sat in bed, cringing at the thought of God, for an hour, and then I got up to tend the garden.

Charlie the cat was on the doorstep.

I’ve never had a cat in my life. I don’t know what I’m doing, but we’re working out our differences. I’ve tried picking Charlie up and setting her in the litter box when she squats over the garden beds, but that hasn’t been an effective teaching tool yet. I’ve looked up what food a cat needs. She gets a can of Friskies in the morning and a handful of kibble or a slice of whitefish before bed, plus horrible smelly chicken-flavored treats in the afternoon. Even though she never goes into the house, we haven’t had to set a mousetrap since she came– I think the mice were coming in under the porch. She used to stalk the guinea pig when the pig grazed in the backyard, but now she leaves her alone. She does not like toys yet, but she likes to pounce on the tall grass.

Charlie had a bad habit of giving a warning bite and batting at me with  claws out when she’s nervous. If she’s on my lap when the claws come out, I’ll gently take the paw and say “No, Charlie. Be nice,” and usually, the claws go in. If she bites at me more than once, I say “That’s enough, Charlie” and get up and go to the backyard. Charlie will follow me there. She likes to watch me garden from under the lilac bush. By this method, she’s begun to stop biting and clawing.  We are getting along.

There was so much to do making Charlie comfortable and working in the garden, that I forgot to be anxious for awhile.

Later that day I was pulling weeds, with the cat watching from under the lilac bush, when one of the Dodgers appeared. “Hi, Rosie!”

Several of the neighborhood children call me Rosie, because Jimmy’s boy calls my house “Rosie’s house.” Adrienne went by her middle name, Rosie, for the first ten years of her life, before she switched to going by her first name. So they know a Rosie lives here, and assume it’s me.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m just getting the dandelions from the edge of Miss Kim’s property,” I said, nodding to the haunted house. “They’re harmless in the middle of the lawn. Bees love them. But I don’t want them growing in the sidewalk or the planters, so we’ll throw these onto the compost and leave the rest alone.”

“Who lives in that house?” asked the girl.

“Nobody. Miss Kim died, and I don’t know who owns the place now. Probably the bank.”

“The bank owns our house!” said the girl cheerfully. “Well, they did. Now we have a new landlord. I didn’t like the old one. Mom gave her forty dollars, but she kept coming back every day saying ‘Give me fifty dollars! Give me fifty dollars!’ The new one is better.'”

“Landlords are a problem.”

“So-and-so says your name is MARY.”

I explained how I came to have two names as we threw the dandelions on the compost, and went around to the front, with Charlie tagging along.

The cat I call Buster, whom the Dodgers call Sparkles, was on the porch, staring cautiously at us. Buster still lives in the Artful Dodgers’ house. The two cats used to play together, but since Charlie started living on my porch, she’s gotten into brawls with any cat who comes to visit.

“Careful! Don’t let Sparkles eat from Charlie’s– I mean, from Kili’s bowl.” The Dodgers called Charlie “Kili.” They laughed when they found out I gave the cat a new name. “Let’s give them both a treat, SEPARATE from each other, so they don’t fight.”

Before I could stop her, the Dodger poured out an enormous serving of kibble in Charlie’s bowl and all over the porch. Buster immediately helped herself, and Charlie arched her back in fury. I ran to get a chicken treat and held it out for the older cat. After a moment’s standoff, Charlie sat on my lap, licking up the smelly puree, still murderously eyeing the kit.

“At home, we fill a drawer with cat food and all the cats eat together,” said the girl.  “Do you want to keep Kili and Sparkles?”

“I’m afraid I only have room for one cat,” I said. “I’ll keep Kili here, but that has to be all.”

“The new landlord says we have to get rid of all our cats because we’ve got too many kids.”

“Not too many cats?”

“No,” said the girl, “Too many kids. There’s too many kids and the house is dirty, so we have to get rid of our cats. I want them to go to people in the neighborhood so we can still play with them. Last year Kili had five babies, one for each of us! But the kittens drank up all the milk and the littlest one died!”

“How many litters has she had?”

The girl couldn’t remember if it was three or four. “One of the litters froze to death in winter.”

“It sounds like she’s had a hard life.”

The girl walked her hand towards Charlie, who lunged at it. She smiled as she pulled it away at the last second. Charlie got angrier and angrier as she repeated this trick several times.

“Be careful! She’ll bite you!” I said, just as Charlie lunged at her wrist.

She giggled and teased the cat more boisterously. Charlie started pouncing with real vehemence, not a warning bite anymore. Thankfully, the girl was wearing long sleeves when the cat latched on and pulled.

“Why are you freaking out?” said the girl. “I’ve had cats biting me since I was two!”

By the time the girl left with Buster, Charlie was halfway to feral.

I brought out a slice of whitefish and poured broth over it. “It’s okay, Charlie. This is a safe place. There’s plenty of food. You don’t have to fight anymore.”

That night, after I picked Michael up from work, I sat on the porch. Charlie sat next to me for awhile, then cautiously made herself at home in my lap. Every time a stray wandered by the yard, she’d jump up, hissing, and I’d reassure. “It’s all right, Charlie. You’re safe now. This is a welcoming place with plenty to eat, and it’s going to be all right.”

Every time she clawed out, I’d hold her paw and repeat the reassurance.

And then I repeated it to myself.

And then God repeated it to me.

Or maybe God didn’t, but that’s what I felt.

There, in the yard, in the haze of a warm spring night, with the incense of the lilac bush filling the air, I held the traumatized cat, and God held the traumatized me.

The God Who knows every shameful and tragic story of everyone who lives in this dilapidated steel mill town, held me. The God Who knows the name of every creature, both the names we give each other and the names we call ourselves, reassured me. The Just Judge who cannot be deceived looked down at this deplorable world, and loved anyway.

It’s all right. You’re safe now. This is a welcoming place with plenty of grace for everyone, and you’re safe.

Evening came and morning followed, and I wasn’t afraid.