Lament for a Christmas Bunny

We had him only a few short days but already loved his gentleness and sweet personality. Already we were attached. We had poured our hearts into preparations because we wanted to be the best bunny owners we could be. David spent weeks building a hutch, not because he really wanted a bunny but because he dearly loves his family. We researched care and bought supplies so we’d be sure to treat him well. He was a long-awaited dream—a furry pet for all of us but mostly for my animal-loving, tenderhearted Charlotte. He was the Christmas surprise of all Christmas surprises.

But finding him dead days later brought a depth of sorrow I wouldn’t have expected.

I’ve owned plenty of pets in my life. My brother was always bringing home some kind of creature. You name it—dogs, cats, birds, turtles, guinea pigs, and even rabbits. We had a veritable pet cemetery in our yard by the time I was a teenager. I’m sure I cried at six when my kitten Midnight “ran away,” but I don’t remember ever feeling as sad about an animal as I have about this little bunny.

In part, it’s wishing I could shield my children from death a little longer, but knowing I can’t. In part, I’m sad for my precious six-year-old who sobbed in my lap and then felt physically weak the next day as she lay around the house. I wish her sensitive heart didn’t know this ache. And of course, it reminds me of a greater sorrow from my past. The ache in my heart is a shadow of the crushing weight of grief I’ve experienced before. Anytime we enter into grief with another, it reminds us of our own griefs. Even if those griefs are long healed, empathy makes us feel it again, at least a little.

I’m also sad for the amount of time and effort my husband put into his lavish gift of love, a home, just for it to be empty so quickly. And if I’m honest, I’m frustrated by the expense that seems wasted and the funds that could have gone to other things.

I’m sad because our little bunny was the sweetest, most gentle little rabbit my family could have asked for. And perhaps we did something that contributed to his death. What an awful thought.

And in the recesses of my mind, somewhere I wasn’t even cognizant of at first, the old temptation to dread awakened. Lurking in a corner was the familiar old worry that this small grief would be a prelude to something larger. Preparing for a greater loss is an understandable response from one who has known the death of a husband and both parents, and in itself is not wrong.

It’s an opportunity to say, “Lord, I don’t know the future, but if this is indeed preparing our hearts for deeper loss, you will carry us through it. You will always be faithful.” And it’s an opportunity to squash the dread. “When we listen—really listen—to the Lord, looking him straight in the face, he removes the dread. It does not say he removes the disaster. But the dread of the disaster” (Kara Tippetts, The Hardest Peace, 129). “Whoever listens to me will dwell secure and will be at ease, without dread of disaster” (Prov. 1:33). So, even if a season of suffering is around the corner, I remember the Lord’s faithfulness. Again and again and again.

As dread threatens to surface, I remind myself of the heart of my Father. He is sovereignly writing a good story, each aspect for my good and his glory. His tender care allows and ordains circumstances just as they should be. “Remember this, had any other condition been better for you than the one in which you are, divine love would have put you there” (Charles Spurgeon, Morning and Evening Daily Readings, 1248).

As you can see, my mind has been quite the tangled knot over “just a bunny.” It’s the life of one who feels everything deeply and hasto disentangle all the jumbled-up thoughts.

People like to call death a natural part of life. There’s nothing natural about it at all. Death exists only because the world is broken, but that it exists is as sure as taxes. I can’t shield my little ones from grief, and to do so forever would be an unkindness. Sharing this sorrow with my children helps them know comfort, helps them know how to process what they feel, helps them long for the day when all will be made right and bunnies don’t die. Perhaps our response to this “small” sorrow will help build a steady foundation for the inevitable day they experience greater loss. I think it’s actually a mercy to shepherd them through the death of a pet before we must shepherd them through the death of a person.

Death reminds us that the world is not as it should be. And if we let it, it shapes our hearts toward Jesus and eternity. We weren’t created to experience death, but we all will. And probably have many times.

It is good that our hearts are not callous toward death. We cannot carry the sorrow of every death that happens in the world, for it would surely crush us. But feeling sorrow over one loved is part of our humanity. It’s part of what makes us image bearers.

Therefore, to lament something as inconspicuous as the life of a Christmas bunny is not a wrong thing. It’s a good and beautiful thing. I’m sure we’ll get another bunny soon, but even in this small death, it’s good for us to feel the weight of loss first.

One of my dearest friends showed up with a pot of homemade potato soup and fresh bread. For the loss of a bunny. That is love. My precious Charlotte experienced this tangible compassion—specifically for her—because Miss Audrey knows Charlotte particularly loves potato soup. Such tender, precise care for my daughter brings my mama heart to tears. It is good for my children to receive such comfort. It’s good for them to see how the body loves when one member hurts. I wouldn’t be surprised if she remembers this act of love her whole life.

I can’t shield my children from loss. But even at tender ages, I can teach them that they need not push down their negative feelings. They need not jump to fix the problem. They need not act as if their hearts don’t feel sad. Rather, they can run to Jesus with their sad hearts. They can learn to pray honestly before him and voice their questions to him. They can learn that the future is in his hands, that even though life will contain dark threads of death, he still weaves something lovely.

So we pray.

“How long, O Lord, will we experience death? How long, O Lord, must we bear this weight we weren’t created for? Little girls aren’t supposed to find their bunnies dead days after Christmas. Lord, this is so small compared to the loss and brokenness around the world. So many are walking through far greater deaths. But, God, you care even when two sparrows fall. You care intimately for each hurt and have the same abundant grace for little girls as you have for widows. Arise and act. Come, Lord Jesus, and make all things new. In the small sorrows and in the great, we remember your character. You are good and always do good.”