Rats

As our humble abode is bordered in the back by thick overgrowth and tangles of unidentified, flowering tree bushes, we share our property with quite the variety of wildlife. We enjoy the screeching of blue jays, the mating dances of humming birds, the quiet grass-nibbling of small rabbits, and the daring, darting commute of rats.

Rats. While many humans choose to poison them (and thereby poison a good deal of other animals in the process), I choose to give them safe passage. My family cares for them in the hot summer months, leaving water in shaded places. The presence of our aging black lab begets their utter lack of interest to dwell within our home, although we do occasionally hear them bump about in the walls. No matter. On those occasions, we simply clear the repeated growth of foliage along the foundation of the house. When they lack a private road, they cease their unnecessry squatting.

I have a history with rats. Or rather, my history with one rat in particular has given me a certain obligation to all ratkind.

My double-digit youth was a mess of slouching hostility. Housed against my will in the nether-reaches of an area known as Devil's Gap, a failed runaway, I stared at my walls, read countless books, memorized the poetry of Edgar Allan Poe. At times I would keep peculiar hours in order to avoid my family. I fantasized about being institutionalized, and read Joanne Greenberg's novel "I Never Promised You a Rose Garden" several times. To this day I regularly tell people, "You can like it. or you can lump it," and even keep a painting I created years later of Anterrabae (which sadly is currently molding in the humidity of my home). I napped in the sparse forest near our house. Sleep was better by day. I tried to kill myself.

One night, lying awake in my bed that was roomed in the unfinished basement beneath my father's triple-wide, I heard a distinct scritching. A creature was in my room. A living creature, busy with independent nocturnal purposes, was with me. And in that place and time of my heart's uncertain subsistence, it was a very welcome interruption in the dark silence. It sounded too large to be a mouse, although I'm not sure why. Perhaps the occasional loud thump of its body as it turned within the bookcase gave me the impression of a rat. Listening to the animal accomplish its secret investigations, I fell asleep... and something changed in me.

To the best of my ability, I sent out the mental promise to the visitor that it would have refuge in my room. The household cat, an alert and deadly mouser, would not be allowed past my door. In my mind, I put no demands or limits upon it -- just the promise of being undisturbed in its work of staying alive.

As its visits became more regular, I left off calling the creature an it, and assigned him the male gender. He spread his territory to include the upper side of my ceiling, and I occasionally was humored by the sound of shiny objects rolling above me. A few of my rings disappeared, as did the apple seed necklace that was of no importance to me.

My perception of life improved as I contemplated the rat frequently and wove private stories of him in my mind. He lent to me his insistence to exist, a revolutionary motivation that gave me a sense of place in a world that kept trying to insist that I did not exist. To me he became a timely benefactor in a rat's body.

I do not remember for how long we maintained this friendship, or which one of us was the first to leave. I hope he lived to a satisfying old age and enjoyed the objects slyly looted from the mess of my habitation. He will never know what he meant to me.

Close to thirty years have passed, and I still think about my friend, the rat. In his honor, I give his cousins safe passage on our property (apologizing for the interloping executions performed by the careless crows). Logic and reason prevail over this relationship, and I know my kindness is just an echo of what once was. And yet, I watch as these creatures daily fulfill their insistence to exist. It is life, and it encourages me to take my part in it.

God has a Hundred Eyes, Mom

That's what my 8-year old said from the backseat of the car at our nearby gas station.

We're not a religious family. We used to be, or I used to be. I would drag my husband and child around to various churches, in the hope of raising our son certified in the entrenchment of some salvific belief. My husband endured my insistence for three years, and I still don't know why. He shrugged his way through bible studies while I prayed over every sniffle and cough that emerged in our asthmatic son. In the throes of a deep post-partum depression that gradually morphed into bipolar disorder, I was desperate for something bigger than ourselves to carry us through some of the worst days of our lives. The disappointment in that was that we were never carried. There was no over-arching joy that was promised by the True Believers. There was no promised development of purpose. We were dragged through hard years with no sense of direction, and until I lucked out in finding the proper care of my mental instability, we simply hoped for better times. Thank Science for pharmaceuticals.

"God has a hundred eyes, Mom." I had just tried to give a destitute man one of my son's snack bars, with my son's permission. My son loves to feed the homeless, despite his own disdain for food ("I'm a drinking kind of person."  -- So am I, son, just in a different way.). "He didn't want it," I said. "He has no teeth. I feel sad that we have nothing else to give him." "It's okay," he answered. "God has a hundred, eyes, Mom." I pushed my key back into the car's ignition, and we pulled out onto the road that would lead us to another much-anticipated playdate. The Red Hot Chili Peppers were being played on the radio. "Turn it UP," I heard from the backseat. The conversation was over. As with so many other things, my son's focus had moved on. However, mine had not.

Several years ago, when we parted from The Church, it was an inevitable withdrawal that resulted from a tragic testimony performed by one of the congregants. Her nephew had been severely beaten, and killed, by the father's girlfriend. The members of the church celebrated -- how fantastic would it be if the father came to salvation through this gift of hardship! My stomach churned. Maybe I wasn't mature enough in my faith, although I had spent years training to be a missionary before marriage and family became my life. Maybe my new medication was obscuring my view of His Mysterious Ways. I wanted to throw up. I wanted to rage against this spiritual machine. Instead, I simply walked away. My husband was relieved that the religious chapter was over. I was relieved to finally let go of my empty, forceful-against-all-sensibilities hope. Our focus had moved on.

It's my son's belief that baffles me, bemuses me, makes me think deep thoughts. He is like the priest in The Spirit of St. Louis, who responds to Lindbergh's question posed in Jimmy Stewarts' patented amicable voice - Would God save you if your airplane failed? "I don't know. But he would know that I was falling." That's all my son seems to want from an unseen God. A witness. To him, that's enough. There are no demands from either party. There are no expectations, no contracts, no false hopes, and no threats. Just being seen is enough. In these last few years, I have moved on to living a pragmatic life filled with if-then statements. It makes sense to me. It satisfies me. But then, there is a hungry man out there who has no home. And no teeth. There is no "if I give him a snack bar, then he will be a little less hungry" cause and effect that can take place here. But, to my son, this man, his life, his falling, is seen. I don't know why that matters, but it does.