The Unlikely Messenger: A Slice of Life with Debra Brown
We’d circled St. Patrick’s Day on the 2007 calendar months ago, long before pink and white azaleas bloomed around city squares and yellow pollen dusted everything. Instead, our own shamrocks in the closet changed everything.
It happened because a little black cat showed up outside our door the previous December. She shivered in the damp coastal cold, her fur no match for the wind. She fit in two hands at five pounds. Meredith named our new kitten Psyche. A trip to the vet revealed we hadn’t just adopted a cat; we’d adopted a pregnant one.
So our closet became a makeshift nursery on that blue-sky but chilly St. Patrick’s morning as thousands of visitors and locals camped along the squares.
Psyche gave birth right on top of the shoes, the scent of leather and fresh laundry rising around her. Two gray-and-white brothers arrived, along with a solid gray male and a black female who looked just like her mama. When it was over, Psyche climbed onto my bed and searched for comfort while she rested.
That morning, we faced a choice: head downtown into the sea of green and marching bands, or stay home with a mama cat and her newborn kittens.
Meredith settled it.
While Allen and I talked about traffic and parking, she planted herself in the middle of the living room and crossed her arms.
“We can’t go,” she said. “The kittens need us. It’s our responsibility to take care of the family.”
She spoke with the same conviction she’d heard from me during that first year of caregiving, when my parents moved in with us. Now she handed my words back to me.
So we stayed home.
Instead of squeezing through shoulder-to-shoulder crowds, we watched the parade from the couch. Brass bands blared through the television speakers while green grits steamed on the stove. Mom rolled shamrock cookies with Meredith, flour dusting the counter and clinging to the rolling pin. Dad laughed at the Shriners’ antics between floats.
Meredith and I checked on the kittens curled in their closet nest.
“Momma, see? We don’t need to go anywhere. We have our own shamrocks in the closet,” she whispered, leaning closer. “Look how tiny they are. Can I hold them?”
“Not yet,” I said. “Let’s give her babies a week or two to bond with Psyche first.”
We watched them twitch and stretch, their eyes still closed. High-pitched squeaks filled the small space. Psyche padded back to them, curling her small body protectively around the fragile new lives.
Outside, somewhere downtown, cheers rose as floats passed beneath blue March skies. On River Street, green beads and a party atmosphere prevailed as Savannah displayed its Irish pride.
But at home, our celebration felt as exciting as anything happening across town. We just had to visit the kittens to feel it.
I never felt we missed out.
By late afternoon, the parade shifted to highlight reels. Cookie crumbs dotted the platter on the kitchen counter. Dad dozed in his chair. Meredith lingered in the closet upstairs, watching the steady rise and fall of tiny kitten bellies.
“Mom?” she said softly.
“Yes?”
“I’m glad we stayed.”
I thought about my parents living under our roof and about the pastry flour still dusting the counter as I looked at the small black mama cat curled around her babies. I realized our daughter had learned what love requires.
“So am I,” I answered.
Without the stress of parking or pushing through crowds, the day felt easier, sweeter, and simpler.
We almost chose the parade. Instead, we chose the kittens.
That simple decision reminded me of something I’d learned again and again: faith rarely arrives in grand public moments. It shows up in quiet choices between what we want and what love requires.
Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others” – Philippians 2:4.
Meredith lived that verse long before she quoted it.
Sometimes, the truest celebration isn’t out there in the crowd. It’s found in the small, faithful tending of what God has placed in our hands — even shamrocks in the closet.
Debra Brown’s motto is “Be the Spark.” She has a passion for family, her 3 cats, flowers, pretty food, and health & wellness. Debra is an author, UGA honors graduate/The Citadel MBA.