First, you spot her cookies-and-cream coat, but she is not her colors.
Next, you notice moonstones where you expected to find eyes, but she is not her jewels.
Then, you scan her record: FIV+, blind, heart murmur, lumps. But she is not her medical chart.
At last, you see Faith, and she is greater than sight.
She is also greater than homemade bread, your softest hoodie, and the first purple flower of spring. She is greater than Paul Rudd movies, porch swings, and your grandmother’s spaghetti sauce. She is greater than spontaneous sing-a-longs, free parking, and the Willie Nelson version of “Over the Rainbow.”
And she is far greater than fear, although they have never met.
Faith did not meet fear when it owned the deed to her house. As one of the littlest, most delicate cats in a hoarding situation, she still raised the roof. In a world that still contained kisses, cheese, and her own heartbeat, how could she keep from singing?
We know full well how we could have kept from singing. We stop singing if the convenience store is out of Doritos. We stop singing if there’s a flight delay en route to our beach vacation. We stop singing if someone looks at us funny and we can’t tell if it was funny-ha-ha or funny-judgy.
But Faith is stronger than most of us. Perhaps it has something to do with her vision.
Her swirly eyes look as mystical as mood rings, and Faith relies on feeling and intuition. She can’t “see” the world in the ordinary way, which sets her free for the extraordinary ways.
The pictures in her mind are all masterpieces and miracles. While we are looking at diagnoses and prognoses, Faith is feasting on frescoes of winged unicorns and Paul Rudd and castles adorned in spray cheese. While we scroll heartbreaking headlines, Faith beholds the big story of love, with no commercial break.
If you let her interrupt you, Faith will paint you into her picture. Sit on the floor to jangle her a jingle ball, or rub your cheeks into hers until you are fully Faith-furred, and you will glimpse sights that startle you.
This cat came from chaos, but purrs a whole hymnal of peace. She is infected with feline immunodeficiency virus (FIV) as well as incurable hope, and only one defines her. Inside that burbling, blissful little body is a heart murmur and a heartfelt conviction that she was meant to smush herself into your personal self as mushfully as possible. There are weird lumps on her belly, but that is secondary to the fact that she has a belly, which is where the laughs live.
It wouldn’t be Faith if there weren’t laughs.
And we have a feeling the last laugh will drown out the dirge of “unadoptable,” a word unknown to Faith. We are smuggling all the snuggles we can get, for we know it’s just a matter of time before someone finds Faith. They will look into her moonstones and see hints of heaven. They will believe in her bouncy bravery until they can’t remember when they last saw fear. They will take Faith out of our sight.
But Faith is greater than sight.
And once Faith has believed in you the way Faith believes in every face that brushes her whiskers, you are forever changed. You are part of the fresco now, with the rainbow angels and the pepperoni cobblestones. You have added color and confirmation to this little cat’s conviction that life looks like love.
And from now until the day we all see each other face to face, you will be full of Faith, the cat who lives what she believes.