Stray. 

Our rowhome sat in a neighborhood where cats were as natural to the landscape as the weeds that grew up through cracks in the sidewalk. Whether this was characteristic of other Baltimore neighborhoods, I’m not sure. But for ours, the cats were subjects of conversation and, for most of the neighbors, objects of affection. And the neighbor who was known to care most about the cats was Ronnie, short for Veronica.

In colder months, she’d put out shelters she’d constructed, consisting of plastic storage totes lined with foam insulation and towels, each with a cat-sized hole cut as an entry. She kept food and water bowls on the sidewalk in front of her house, and she made sure to keep them filled. I couldn’t guess how many bags of food she went through in a given month. I never fully understood this, because Ronnie continually struggled to secure enough to feed herself. It’s interesting how it can be more natural for people to care for their pets—or stray cats—than for themselves.  For the years we lived there, a couple times a week, Kelly would make a plate of whatever dinner she’d prepared for our family and have one of our kids take it over to Ronnie. Given I’m something of a cat person myself (we had six when we were in Baltimore), I was happy to listen to the latest stories about the neighborhood strays Ronnie told with pride and affection. 

When we met Ronnie, she had never been to church. It didn’t take long for her to begin joining us for our Sunday evening gatherings, which we held in our house. As she had grown older, she experienced much loss. Her husband had passed, and she’d developed health issues that forced leaving her job before she was ready. Those same issues eventually led to her no longer being able to drive, and she’d sold her car. Her kids had moved out of the house, and they didn’t come around very often. From a certain angle, life can be seen as a series of losses. We experience different peaks throughout our lives, physically, professionally, cognitively, and otherwise, and when we find ourselves on the downhill side, many mourn the capacities they no longer possess. If we’re not careful, our perspectives may be shaped more by the losses than the beauties that surround us, and Ronnie’s perspective was shaped in a big way by the layers of loss. Perhaps the cats helped soften the loneliness a little. Maybe our church did too. 

Ronnie didn’t talk very much, and when she did, her words were long and slow, as if they had to be kneaded and stretched before she could present them to the world. It took a little bit of patience to have a conversation with her, and in a time and place that leans too much toward hurry, I learned to enjoy slowing down to listen. Ronnie’s stories were like a slideshow of our neighborhood’s past. She enjoyed sharing about the finest meals from her favorite restaurants that had closed down years ago, or the events she attended at the lodge on the corner of our block. She’d share her thoughts on neighbors who’d lived in each house on our street, and she had her opinions, for better or worse, on each one. 

Each week, our church took time to pray for one another, and Ronnie was always ready to share her requests. There are people who tend to smile through life, characterized by a kind of enthusiasm and cheerfulness, no matter what they face. Ronnie was not like that. Her demeanor was something heavier, gray. Her prayer requests certainly reflected this posture. Yet I was continually warmed by the spirit of our people, who received it all not in a spirit of annoyance, but with patience and compassion. Genuinely. Ronnie was sad and sweet, and we loved her. 

One Sunday, Ronnie excitedly shared that, the following week, her son would be coming in for a visit and joining her for church. She rarely heard from him, and she hadn’t seen him in months. This news was the brightest star that had dotted her sky in quite a long time, and it would be the point by which she would set her course for the following days. When telling the news, Ronnie’s countenance brightened in a way I’d never seen before. She couldn’t wait to make his favorite meals, and over dinners at her table, hear about the ways he was making his way. 

Over the next week, I saw Ronnie several times out on the sidewalk. When I’d take our German Shepherd out for a walk, I’d find her sitting in an old folding lawn chair, the classic kind with the wide woven nylon ribbons, she’d placed on the sidewalk near the cats’ food and water bowls. Each time, she’d share how she looked forward to seeing her son.

When Sunday came, Ronnie arrived at our house a few minutes early, as usual. This time, though, instead of sitting on our sofa, drinking a cup of black coffee, she stood at the window, anticipating her son squeezing his car into a tight spot on the street, and walking toward our house. As I watched her, I knew she wouldn’t wait for him to come in; she’d rush out the door and down the three steps in front of the rowhome, squeezing her son with all the aged might she could muster. When the time came to begin our service, he still hadn’t arrived, and Ronnie was clearly disappointed. When we’d finished, and each person in attendance filed through our kitchen to fill their plate for our weekly meal, it was evident she was worried. And by the time Ronnie left our house to go home for the night, the expression she carried made it clear she was deeply troubled.

It was July, and our church engaged in a lot of outreach among our neighbors throughout the summer. Most days, I spent my time hosting mission teams, preparing for a mission team coming into town, or handling responsibilities associated with a mission team having been with us. Even so, the most important thing about my job has always been people, and whereas most weeks, I’d check in with the folks from our church about once a week, I felt it would be good to check in with Ronnie every day. Monday, she’d heard nothing from her son. Tuesday, still no word. 

That Wednesday, I left the house a little late because I knew it was going to be a long day. I called Ronnie before I did. She still hadn’t talked with her son. When I stepped outside, the humidity assaulted me in a way that made it hard to breathe. Having grown up in the South, I’d always picture the North as a place with harsh winters and mild summers. I was wrong, and the summer months were almost as hot and humid as I’d experienced growing up in Alabama. By mid-morning, the sun was already high and the heat was beginning to intensify. 

When you walk down the sidewalk in Baltimore, you mostly keep your eyes ahead and move forward. Of course, you nod, smile, or wave at neighbors you encounter, and those you know well, you stop and have a brief, or sometimes extended, conversation. One thing I loved about Baltimore is that, compared to suburban Alabama where people pull into their garages and mostly keep to themselves, this wasn’t possible in our urban context. In a city that’s known to be hard and gritty, people knew and cared about one another genuinely. But, as you walk, you certainly don’t look into windows or cars, because there’s a certain anxious awareness all people carry, and wandering eyes tend to trip the warning.

Everyone knew the cars that belonged on our block, and for two days, I’d walked past a car that didn’t belong, but I hadn’t noticed. Eyes ahead. But this day, I did, and as I glanced inside, I saw a man sitting motionless in the driver’s seat. When I looked closer, it became immediately apparent that there was something unnatural about his figure. He was swollen in a way that had moved far beyond the need for doctors or medicine. I called the police. It took longer than I’d hoped for them to arrive. When they did, an officer used a metal ribbon to unlock the door, and when he opened it, I was struck by a smell more potent than anything I’d encountered before. The body had likely been sitting in the heat for a few days. Since Sunday.

I thought it might be better for Ronnie to hear from me than from an officer. He would have been direct and professional. I’d hoped I could bring a sense of warmth and compassion that might be meaningful on some level. As I walked up to Ronnie’s door, beside the stoop was a stray eating the food Ronnie had set out. I knocked, and when she opened, it’s almost as if she already knew. The brightness we’d seen a week earlier was wholly gone. With the car containing Ronnie’s son only feet away from the door, I encouraged Ronnie to step back into her living room, and as gently as I could, I shared only the necessary details. We both learned later that, what his body had learned to crave, he’d injected before coming inside.

I sat with Ronnie as she wept.