In Memory of Storm Baggett (July 8, 2002 – December 26, 2020)

We gather this morning to remember and honor Storm Baggett, our precious kitty who gave us much joy. Storm was one of a kind—a distinctly Torm Tormo, and a very good Tormo she was. We thank God that he let us share in her life, and we are here today to reflect on that life and celebrate her spirit. We miss her very much, but that grief testifies to how much we loved her and how special she is.  

God entrusted care of the animals to us humans, and we had the privilege of caring for Storm for the last 18 years. In the last few years, we saw the effects of the fall take their toll on Storm, as she aged and succumbed to several health challenges. But today we cling to the promise of the resurrection and affirm the belief that animals—as innocently at the mercy of the fall they are—will be caught up in the redemption of the cosmos. I am grateful that we will see Storm again.  

“But ask the animals, and they will teach you; the birds of the air, and they will tell you; . . . and the fish of the sea will declare to you. In his hand is the life of every living thing. . . .“ (Job 12:7, 8b, 10a)

Eulogy: The Last Battle (Nathaniel)

It’s been more than eight years since I actually lived with Storm, but she hadn’t stopped being my cat. She was a stubborn little thing, mostly using that stubbornness to resist moving. Her low center of gravity allowed her to dictate when she stopped lazing about and when she started; she could plop down whenever she decided, but she mostly chose the comfort of a padded cushion or a bed. She was a good girl who knew what life should be to her early on, and she didn’t have to change because she made the choice on her own. She was the paradigmatic lazy cat, and she was the best at it.

Picking Storm was the easiest thing, almost like destiny. Among a sea of kittens, she alone purred when I held her. Cats should be happy to see their people, and in that moment, Storm seemed happy to see me. I was her person now, and she my kitty. Even though years later we would get her sister and unsuccessfully try to make her part of the family, Storm was specially and instantly ours.

She was also one of the best homework assignments. Early on in her time with us, a student teacher tasked me with using all five senses to describe my pet. Most seemed easy enough: I saw her black and gray stripes with white patches, I heard her purr, felt her fur, could smell her cat food breathe, which even then was stinky. “How do I describe my cat’s taste?” was a question in my head for a brief moment before I knew the answer and was licking my new kitten. She tasted like I got hair in my mouth. “Good job. I could really picture your cat” was the comment I got, which means either the student teacher didn’t really read that final bit or she didn’t care that I decided to lick my cat and poorly describe it, both of which mean teachers are over-worked.

That was so long ago, probably 18 years. I don’t remember much from the intervening years because cats are constant companions whose contributions are comfort and care, not never-ending experiences. I grew up with Storm always around, mostly sleeping in the living room. She loved a bright spot. My life changed so much between getting Storm and today because that’s what time does. It changes people, but cats are mostly always going to be cats and sleep in the sun. Storm lived a good life. She was the best cat. She was good to pet when she wanted it, and when she didn’t, as often seemed the case when I found her on a bed alone, she would choose when she had fulfilled her catly duty and leave. She didn’t need much. She knew what she wanted and would get it, frequently wanting a nap or to eat. She was round for most of her life for the same reason. I miss her, and I will always miss her now that she’s gone.

The anger Dylan Thomas felt is a little closer now. I wanted her to rage, too—rage against the dying of the light, rave at close of day. Instead, we got anxious circles in small spaces and a need to be held for comfort. We got squirmies. She wasn’t the boisterous, loud, angry little thing I wanted of her. She couldn’t be. She was small, old, blind, and probably mostly deaf. Every bone poked through her skin. I wanted violent, lashing-out anger, but what she gave instead was smaller and sadder, but no less a fight. She fought to stay in her crate, fought to be here. When the end was coming down the line, she peed in defiance. She was a good kitty, and death sucks. Storm knew that and didn’t let it take her easy, even if it wasn’t what I wanted. We should all be so lucky to be stubbornly ourselves to the end.

To a Cat by Algernon Charles Swinburne (Marybeth)

I

Stately, kindly, lordly friend,
Condescend
Here to sit by me, and turn
Glorious eyes that smile and burn,
Golden eyes, love’s lustrous meed,
On the golden page I read.

All your wondrous wealth of hair,
Dark and fair,
Silken-shaggy, soft and bright
As the clouds and beams of night,
Pays my reverent hand’s caress
Back with friendlier gentleness.

Dogs may fawn on all and some
As they come;
You, a friend of loftier mind,
Answer friends alone in kind.
Just your foot upon my hand
Softly bids it understand.

Morning round this silent sweet
Garden-seat
Sheds its wealth of gathering light,
Thrills the gradual clouds with might,
Changes woodland, orchard, heath,
Lawn, and garden there beneath.

Fair and dim they gleamed below:
Now they glow
Deep as even your sunbright eyes,
Fair as even the wakening skies.
Can it not or can it be
Now that you give thanks to see?

May not you rejoice as I,
Seeing the sky
Change to heaven revealed, and bid
Earth reveal the heaven it hid
All night long from stars and moon,
Now the sun sets all in tune?

What within you wakes with day
Who can say?
All too little may we tell,
Friends who like each other well,
What might haply, if we might,
Bid us read our lives aright.

II

Wild on woodland ways your sires
Flashed like fires:
Fair as flame and fierce and fleet
As with wings on wingless feet
Shone and sprang your mother, free,
Bright and brave as wind or sea.

Free and proud and glad as they,
Here to-day
Rests or roams their radiant child,
Vanquished not, but reconciled,
Free from curb of aught above
Save the lovely curb of love.

Love through dreams of souls divine
Fain would shine
Round a dawn whose light and song
Then should right our mutual wrong —
Speak, and seal the love-lit law
Sweet Assisi’s seer foresaw.

Dreams were theirs; yet haply may
Dawn a day
When such friends and fellows born,
Seeing our earth as fair at morn,
May for wiser love’s sake see
More of heaven’s deep heart than we.

Prayer for the Animals by Albert Schweitzer (Nathaniel)

Hear our humble prayer, O God, for our friends the animals, especially for animals who are suffering; for any that are hunted or lost or deserted or frightened or hungry; for all that must be put to death. We entreat for them all Thy mercy and pity, and for those who deal with them we ask a heart of compassion and gentle hands and kindly words. Make us, ourselves, to be true friends to animals and so to share the blessings of the merciful.

UMC Book of Worship, Service for the Animals (Marybeth)

The animals of God's creation inhabit the skies, the earth, and the sea.
They share in the fortunes of human existence
and have a part in human life.
God, who confers gifts on all living things,
has often used the service of animals
or made them reminders of the gifts of salvation.
Animals were saved from the flood
and afterwards made a part of the covenant with Noah. (Genesis 9:9–10)
The paschal lamb recalls the Passover sacrifice
and the deliverance from slavery in Egypt. (Exodus 12:3–14)
A giant fish saved Jonah; (Jonah 2:1–10)
ravens brought bread to Elijah; (1 Kings 17:6)
animals were included in the repentance of Nineveh; (Jonah 3:7)
and animals share in Christ's redemption of all God's creation.
We, therefore, invoke God's blessing on these animals.
As we do so, let us praise the Creator
and thank God for setting us as stewards
over all the creatures of the earth.

Scripture Readings (Nathaniel & Marybeth)

Romans 8:18-25

I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us. For the creation waits in eager expectation for the children of God to be revealed. For the creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice, but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay and brought into the freedom and glory of the children of God. We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time. Not only so, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption to sonship, the redemption of our bodies. For in this hope we were saved. But hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what they already have? But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently.

Isaiah 65:17-25

“See, I will create
    new heavens and a new earth.
The former things will not be remembered,
    nor will they come to mind.
But be glad and rejoice forever
    in what I will create,
for I will create Jerusalem to be a delight
    and its people a joy.
I will rejoice over Jerusalem
    and take delight in my people;
the sound of weeping and of crying
    will be heard in it no more.

“Never again will there be in it
    an infant who lives but a few days,
    or an old man who does not live out his years;
the one who dies at a hundred
    will be thought a mere child;
the one who fails to reach a hundred
    will be considered accursed.
They will build houses and dwell in them;
    they will plant vineyards and eat their fruit.
No longer will they build houses and others live in them,
    or plant and others eat.
For as the days of a tree,
    so will be the days of my people;
my chosen ones will long enjoy
    the work of their hands.
They will not labor in vain,
    nor will they bear children doomed to misfortune;
for they will be a people blessed by the Lord,
    they and their descendants with them.
Before they call I will answer;
    while they are still speaking I will hear.
The wolf and the lamb will feed together,
    and the lion will eat straw like the ox,
    and dust will be the serpent’s food.
They will neither harm nor destroy
    on all my holy mountain,” says the Lord.

Revelations 21:5

And he who was seated on the throne said, “Behold, I am making all things new.”

Eulogy: Stormy Gal(e) (David)

I well remember the fateful night we went to collect Storm to bring her to 120 Adams Drive. She would be meeting her new sisters for the first time, Buffy and Franno. I kept telling Franno, in the days and hours prior to Tormo’s arrival, that a storm was a’comin’. And little did I know. For the night featured a major maelstrom in Lynchburg—replete with torrential rain, heavy winds, and downed trees and power lines. In fact going home that night required weaving all throughout the neighborhood to find a clear path. A storm was coming alright.

But infinitely worse than the inclement weather, for Francesca, was the arrival of this new threatening butterball of a big kitty. A little known fact: Francesca wasn’t always the most gracious of hostesses. When we brought Storm into the house in the cat carrier, we set her and it down there in the kitchen. We thought it might be a useful way to ease Storm’s arrival, allowing them all to get acquainted. Although Buffy was curious, Franno was furious, repeatedly hissing and slapping the carrier for all she was worth. For a while that evening we didn’t know what to do. Like a diminutive dog safely tucked behind a big fence and viciouser by the minute, Franny was getting bolder and bolder, and poor Storm just had to bide her time and take it while locked inside the cage.

Finally I thought, aww, what the heck, and I opened the carrier. And in a flash Storm took the opportunity it afforded and made a crazy dash out of the carrier. Petrified out of her mind of course, Franno took off like a lightning bolt, with Storm hot on her tail. 15 seconds later I found them both behind the washing machine in the basement, Franny playing defense standing tall on her back legs, Storm looking menacing, teaching Franno a lesson not soon forgotten.

So I was thinking of STORM as an acrostic—S could be the Storm during which she arrived, or the Storm that ensued when she showed up, but I’ll go with S as the new Sheriff in town. And Franno never forgave her. In fact I am fairly confident that as soon as Storm opened her eyes in the next world Franny was there to pop her one.

For the T I have to go with Tenacious, putting it diplomatically. Storm was a stubborn one, with a mind of her own. Even as she declined, she remained her feisty self, stubborn to the bone and to the end. She knew what she wanted, and she would have it, whether revenge for Franno’s abuse, a comfy spot on the couch, or more turkey for her final meal. I’m sure it was her stubbornness that accounts for that long life, outlasting both Franny and Buffy; she just kept going, making it to 18 and a half (91 in human years), and would have made it even longer, though the road would have been a rough one. As hard as it was to let her go, it was the merciful and loving thing to do.

And on that aforementioned “comfy” issue, man alive did Storm have a knack for enjoying life and making herself comfortable. I could go into a room five seconds after she did and find her luxuriating on the bed or couch as if she’d been there for hours, always able to make lying down right there and just like that look like the most pleasurable thing in the world. She knew how to revel in life, milking every opportunity for all it was worth.

Which accounts for the O—Obese. For the longest time, as MB put it, Tormo was the plump one. A veritable chunkster; also, low to the ground—low center of gravity, hard to knock over. She enjoyed life, and ease, and food. An unapologetic epicurean by nature, she delighted in life’s small pleasures, one after the next, often, for example, eliciting from Buffy good lickings. Never once as far as I recall did Storm reciprocate the licks, but she loved getting them. She’d put her head under Buffy’s and just wait for as long as it took, as if to say, “This head ain’t gonna lick itself.” It was more than a little shameless, but Storm certainly didn’t mind, nor did Buffy.

The R in STORM I’ll come back to momentarily.

For the M, I’m tempted to talk about Storm’s Mommy, Marybeth. Storm loved us all, but she always loved Nathaniel in a special way, and he her; and she knew who her mommy was, and it was Marybeth. Down deep I know Storm would trust her mommy to do the right thing and take care of her, like she always had, even when it meant doing something very hard, once Storm’s strength had grown weak and her body gaunt. Her mommy can know she did right by Storm, and gave Storm a wonderful life, and made sure she didn’t die alone. How Storm loved her mommy.

But the M I’m going to talk about is how Stormo could get Mad—mad, in fact, in her whole body. On occasion Buffy in particular could make her simply apoplectic—we were never entirely sure why—and her whole body would tense up. At those moments she was a mad Tormo.

But though mad, she was never bad. Really didn’t have a mean bone in her whole body. Tormo was a good Tormo, and we’ll miss her terribly. The loss is nothing less than excruciating, no sugarcoating that, but death isn’t the last word, and doesn’t have the final say. That’s where the R comes in: Redemption. Of the whole cosmos, of which Tormo was and ever will be a vital, unrepeatable part.

I will sorely miss feeling Storm’s gentle weight on my chest, seeing her wrapped in swaddling clothes next to me in bed or cradled in my arm, seeing her sprawled like a corpulent catserole on the couch, her adorable searching eyes, her insatiable insistence on herself. More than words can capture, I will miss her gentle purr, her ravenous appetite, the way she palpably relished and indulged pleasure. I will miss her simply beautiful face, and her stubborn self. She was such a one-of-a-kind. Her departure leaves a terrible hole in our lives, that feels a bit irreparable at the moment, but it goes without saying we wouldn’t give up those years with her for anything, even if it meant having to endure the pain of saying goodbye.

Now, two years to the day we bid adieu to Franno, in the same tumultuous and trying year we unexpectedly and tragically lost our dear Buffo, Stormy has gone to be with Franny and Buffy, a study in contrasts, the three eminently motley yet perfectly matched sisters, tensions and all, reunited once more, as it should be. My last words to Storm were not to take any crap from Franno. I have a sneaking suspicion she won’t as she has likely by now assumed her new jurisdiction. And I hope Buffy doesn’t make her mad in her whole body again, but then again, as ecstatic as Buffy will be to see her, she probably will, let’s be honest.

And we have great hope we will see her, and all of them, again, because the scope of the redemption of Christ’s work is as wide as the fall. Since Storm brought us such unspeakable joy, let me end with the first few stanzas from “Joy to the World,” redolent with resounding hope, which won’t disappoint, that we will see her again, and Sophia and Franno, Spooky and Buffy, in a world redeemed and a world set right, marked by the death of death, good bye to good bye’s, and the wiping away of all our tears, a world ruled by its rightful King:

Joy to the world! The Lord is come
Let earth receive her King!
Let every heart prepare Him room
And heaven and nature sing
And heaven and nature sing
And heaven, and heaven and nature sing

Joy to the world! The Savior reigns
Let men their songs employ
While fields and floods
Rocks, hills and plains
Repeat the sounding joy
Repeat the sounding joy
Repeat, repeat the sounding joy

Joy to the world then we sing
Let the earth receive her King!
No more let sin and sorrows grow,
Nor thorns infest the ground;
He comes to make His blessings flow
Far as the curse is found,
Far as the curse is found,
Far as, far as the curse is found.
Joy to the world! The Lord is come
Let earth receive her King!

“I Sing the Mighty Power of God” by Isaac Watts

Reading from C. S. Lewis (Nathaniel)

To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.

Eulogy: Uniquely Storm (Marybeth)

Storm loved life more than most creatures, human beings included. Whenever you came across her—laying in bed, eating, stretched out in the sun—she was always taking full advantage of the situation. She relished sleeping for hours, and I never knew our bed could be as comfortable as she made it seem. Even eating cat food somehow seemed appealing to watch her do it. And just this past week, in fact, I thought she might bite my finger off as she gobbled up some Christmas turkey we gave her as a treat. And when I came upon her in the kitchen, appreciating a sunbeam, I was tempted to lie down and join her. Even as she aged and lost some of her agility and power, she figured out new ways to get to her prized spot on the bed—taking a two-step approach with an initial hop on the off-kilter box spring and then on to the mattress. It was so cute to watch her in this new routine that I never could adjust the mattress to take her step away.

That workaround says so much about Storm. It wasn’t that she was a particular smart cat, but she was tenacious. She would insist on having her way. To be honest, that’s probably why I identified with her so much. Watching Storm was a humorous feline mirror of my own stubborn impulses. And she was so stubborn—to the end. After we moved to Texas and her health meant she could no longer get on the bed, she would spend much of her time in the kitchen, finding the most inconvenient places to curl up and sleep for hours, often in front of the refrigerator. We would move her to get something to eat, and she would immediately get right back in the way.

But you could never get mad at Storm because she was just so doggone cute. She always was. Her tabby cat stripes, and her plump little face always made me smile. Add to that her silent meow where she’d open her mouth and somehow the sound came out only after she closed it. But it really was her personality that made her so precious. She knew what she wanted, and she wouldn’t let anyone or anything interfere with her getting it. I think that’s why she would get so mad at Buffy who loved Storm from the first moment she met her. Most of the time, Storm indulged Buffy’s attentions. Every time Buffy went by Storm, she rubbed her body against Storm’s face. And Storm just patiently let her do so. Maybe she thought it was a tradeoff for getting her head licked. But sometimes, we often had no idea what the trigger was, Buffy would set Storm off. But that was cute, too, as Storm tensed up and growled for all she was worth. You still couldn’t help but laugh because she was never a threat.

Though I think she did make many a vet tech nervous. That was where her spitfire nature came out the most. I remember when she was spayed, way back before her first birthday. She and her sister Sophia went in at the same time, and when I picked Storm up, the techs were saying that Storm was feisty and hissed at them a lot. I thought for sure they had gotten her mixed up with Sophia. I’d never seen Storm be anything but super affectionate. But later I witnessed that at the vet, her inner beastie came out. She did not appreciate being poked and prodded, and she made her displeasure clear. Let’s just say that Storm had good boundaries. Probably another reason I liked her so much—she was the independent-minded woman I aspired to be.

We had Storm for over 18 years, and while I miss her, I’m beyond grateful for that time. She was a constant during many years of change, and she brought joy during life’s many challenges. When you pick a kitten from a litter or shelter, you really have no idea what’s in store. But I can say with confidence, that never has there been a better fit between cat and home than with Storm and us. We are poorer for her absence, but that’s only because her presence had enriched our lives so.

Reading from C. S. Lewis (David)

When we are speaking of creatures so remote from us as wild beasts, and prehistoric beasts, we hardly know what we are talking about. It may well be that they have no selves and no sufferings. It may even be that each species has a corporate self—that Lionhood, not lions, has shared in the travail of creation and will enter into the restoration of all things. And if we cannot imagine even our own eternal life, much less can we imagine the life the beasts may have as our “members”. If the earthly lion could read the prophecy of that day when he shall eat hay like an ox, he would regard it as a description not of heaven, but of hell. And if there is nothing in the lion but carnivorous sentience, then he is unconscious and his “survival” would have no meaning. But if there is a rudimentary Leonine self, to that also God can give a “body” as it pleases Him—a body no longer living by the destruction of the lamb, yet richly Leonine in the sense that it also expresses whatever energy and splendour and exulting power dwelled within the visible lion on this earth. I think, under correction, that the prophet used an eastern hyperbole when he spoke of the lion and the lamb lying down together. That would be rather impertinent of the lamb. To have lions and lambs that so consorted (except on some rare celestial Saturnalia of topsy-turvydom) would be the same as having neither lambs nor lions. I think the lion, when he has ceased to be dangerous, will still be awful: indeed, that we shall then first see that of which the present fangs and claws are a clumsy, and satanically perverted, imitation. There will still be something like the shaking of a golden mane: and often the good Duke will say, “Let him roar again”.

“Somewhere over the Rainbow”

Prayer of St. Francis (Marybeth)

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace:
where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
where there is sadness, joy.

O divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek
to be consoled as to console,
to be understood as to understand,
to be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive,
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.
Amen.