A scruffy gray and white cat ran ahead of me as I walked from my car toward Millie’s house.
The cat acted like she owned the place. Tail straight and tall. A V.I.C. Very Important Cat. And when Mildred Bruns opened her door and invited me in, the cat had already slipped through Millie’s legs and dashed to a bowl of dry catfood.
The stray, like many of Millie’s pets, had found her. And there were plenty others who had found her, including the elegant Boots—a black kitty with white paws. He was a stray who had become one of her indoor friends. Boots was permitted to sleep in Millie’s chair when she wasn’t in it, doing her daily crossword puzzles, or watching finches, Orioles and woodpeckers feast at her feeders or wash and drink in a seasonally heated birdbath.
This scruffy cat, though outside wandering most of the time, was allowed in the house to eat because she had just had kittens, Millie explained. Young ones were depending on her.
It didn’t take long to figure out one of Millie’s spiritual gifts. Compassion. If you were one of God’s creatures, large or small, and you had a need, compassion led Mildred to try and meet your need.
That was how Luke, a big black lab, became a member of the household. He showed up one day on the farm and stayed when he received food and affection. But he still had to sleep outdoors.
That is, until the winter he came down with pneumonia. Millie feared he would die in the bitter cold. He was taken to the vet in Willmar and then brought into the house.
Millie nursed him back to health. And he couldn’t be put outside once he was allowed indoors, she said.
So now Luke comes and goes as he pleases—letting himself in and out.
He was resting on his partially chewed up dog bed under the kitchen table when I came for my first visit. I came to bring Millie a DVD of her grandchild Samuel’s baptism. And to see how she was feeling.
The day of the baptism had been particularly difficult. Back pain radiated down her legs and made sitting or standing almost unbearable. But she came anyway. She wouldn’t have missed it for the world.
Though I had met her in church, I got to know her much better the day she called to ask if I would baptize Samuel. We talked awhile about family and life on the dairy farm—both of which she loved. She told me Samuel’s story—how he was a miracle baby—a child Deb and Tom long hoped for. An answer to their prayer.
Millie’s phone call made my day!
When I hung up, I knew the names of all of Millie’s children—Dennis, Duane, David, Darrell, Dan, Dorri and Debra—where they lived, and what they did. And I knew that Millie was my friend—another person she cared about and would help, if I were in need.
She had many friends—in this church and the wider community. People for which she would quickly throw together a delicious meal if you were hungry. And there would be homemade chocolate chip cookies for dessert.
She lamented that she had no cookies to offer when I dropped by. She hadn’t the energy to bake much lately. Or even to water her beautiful purple flowers outside her window.
But she was not discontent with her situation or limitations. She was grateful for her family who helped her and watched over her when her health became more fragile. She had a full, happy, active life. She didn’t mind living alone, she said, because she didn’t feel alone. She was living in the place where she raised 5 children with her husband, Leonard. It was where she belonged.
She found strength in the bustling life of the family dairy farm.
And she found strength in her faith. She was sorry she didn’t feel well enough to come to church every Sunday, she told me, with tears in her eyes. But she encouraged me in my calling and made me feel welcome here.
My last conversation with Millie was on Friday. My husband and I dropped by her house to find out how she and Baby Samuel were. Samuel had just come through surgery at children’s hospital but was doing well. Millie had had a recent hospital stay and was preparing for more medical tests.
We ended up talking about animals, of course. I told her about a little scraggly black baby bird that had just appeared in my yard recently. And stayed.
He seemed to be alone and vulnerable. His wings were small—too weak to carry him high into the trees like the other birds. He awkwardly hopped along the ground and nibbled on seed that dropped from our feeders. He played in the waterfall under my leaky hose reel when I watered the plants. He looked so joyful as he flapped his little wings, shook off the drips, and dipped his beak into the puddles to drink.
I became so familiar with him that I could identify him just by the sounds he made—especially his furious squawking when other birds came around.
It was as if he were saying, “Go away! This is my place!”
“This is where I belong!”
***
Friends, we can take comfort that God, in His great compassion, knows and cares about our need for love and a place to call home. Not just in this world, but in the life to come. We can trust that God has provided for our beloved Millie’s needs. And He will provide for ours.
God sent His Son, Jesus, to die for us because He didn’t want US to perish in our sins. He made a way for us to be forgiven and reconciled with Him.
Christ rose from the dead and went on ahead of us to His Father’s House of many rooms or dwelling places—as He told His disciples He would.
He went to prepare a place for us, to get it ready, and has promised to come back for us, when our time comes, to bring us to live with Him in our forever home.
And though I can’t tell you what our home in eternity will look like, I can tell you that it will be a place of healing.
A place of love. A place of joy.
A place where we can say with all certainty,
“This is where I belong.”
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