Bunny Killer
80% guilt, 20% boredom.
That was the emotional cocktail which led us to bring home a 3-month old rabbit. See, we- my husband and I- agreed in early January that 2020 would be the year we’d finally give in to my daughter’s obsessive requests for ice skating or horseback riding lessons, and/or a bunny.
(No) thanks to COVID-19, a bunny was the only remaining promise on which we could deliver.
Lovingly dubbed “Chocolate” by my kids- a result of her cocoa-colored coat- she was nothing much more than a wandering, snacking poop machine. I really didn’t expect to fall so hard in love with her. After all, I hadn’t given a whole lot of thought to her arrival.
Although we knew she was coming, we didn’t even think to buy her paraphernalia until the day we picked her up… all of which my husband threw together in a flurried frenzy while I tried to keep the kids from squeezing or losing Chocolate before we’d gotten the chance to know her.
Against all odds, she survived her first day with us. We watched a series of YouTube videos to learn how to care for her, including advice to let her explore freely and pick her up sparingly. Determined to be good bunny parents, we followed it all. Right down to allowing our living room and kitchen to essentially become a sprawling minefield of BB-sized rabbit poop.
Some here. Some there. Little piles everywhere.
Despite it all, I found myself unexpectedly smitten. This animal with whom I’d (almost begrudgingly) agreed to coexist secretly became one of my favorite family members. She’d trail along behind me as I cooked in the kitchen, curiously searching out the tiniest crumbs. There, she’d lie in wait with stubborn determination to make a mad dash toward the fridge anytime the door was even slightly ajar.
Somehow, she knew that’s where we must be hiding the good stuff.
In the evenings, after the kids were asleep (and repeatedly assured Chocolate was put away for the night), I’d snuggle her while we watched TV. During that hour or so, she was just mine- poop, nose nibbles, and all- and I was totally okay with every bit of it.
Which is why I was nothing short of devastated when she died the next day.
Just 3 days into her residency with us, she experienced what I’ve now learned was a state of shock in which the rabbit rapidly deteriorates. I held her close to my chest, wrapped warmly in one of my son’s sweatshirts, waiting out her final moments. I fought back tears as I watched her shining Onyx eyes slowly dim.
And this tiny creature I‘d so quickly grown to adore was suddenly just… gone.
Fair warning: what followed wasn’t pretty.
At 34, I’d like to believe in my ability to keep my unbridled emotions in check, especially with my kids. Yet, my initial instinct was to direct all of my disappointment and sadness at them in the form of anger. Surely this was their fault. They overwhelmed her. Refused to listen when I said she’s not a toy, stop picking her up. And why the fuck can’t I ever have anything nice- or alive?
Instead of drowning them in my own sorrow, I decided it was better to check out. Just take a mental vacation. Go numb. Ice them with a cold shoulder. Particularly my daughter, who at the age of 5, seemed barely phased by any of it.
OMG. She’s a serial killer.
Ever dependable (yet always a tad late by my standards), Jesus showed up.
In clarity that much of my anger was, in fact, a half-assed cover for guilt at my own failure as a pet owner and parent. In perspective that, although a bunny is an awful loss, it isn’t the same weight as the loss of a son or a daughter, a husband or best friend. In reassuring words from other moms who experienced the same set of circumstances and lived to recover.
And, through it all, a certain gratitude for the gravitas.
Because really, on my very best days, I’m not much more than a negligent bunny killer. An enemy of God who shamelessly devours the last of my son’s favorite cookies while he sleeps, feigns forgetfulness at putting away the dishes from the dishwasher until my husband is forced to do it, and couldn’t earn my way to heaven if I had Bill Gates’ money and Tony Robbins as a life coach.
I’m convinced that these seasons are a God-given gift. These moments in which there’s no escape from our lowliness- when we can’t help but see our shameful, hopeless state plain as day. It’s good, every once in awhile, to feel viscerally our need for the saving grace of Jesus, freely lavished and completely unearned. At our worst, He sees us as His chosen best, replacing our filthy rags with the righteousness of His Holy One.
This means when I reach the end of my patience rope and yell at my kids- or worse (and far more likely), cloak hurtful words in sarcasm- He is forgiveness standing by. He covers me and (as I pray almost daily) protects my kids and others from my shortcomings. He knows my mistakes before they’re made, and loves me enough to breathe purpose into them, molding each into a lesson that guides me toward a lighter, light-filled way of being. His way. The better way.
I’m sure in no time I’ll be back to convincing myself that my shit don’t stink. That I’m actually pretty damn cool and easy to love at all times- and what the hell is wrong with everyone else? But even then, he covers me, ensuring that nothing can separate me from His love — not depth nor height, stubborn pride, parental failure nor pet loss. We can rest in this as good news: that, moment by moment, He is able to redeem us all- bunny killers, underhanded politicians, and that lady who cut us off in line at the grocery store.
His saving grace is impartial and eternal.
Even now, he stands at the door of your heart, knocking. All you have to do is let Him in.
