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In the World that is Passing Away

In the World that is Passing Away

Last updated on: September 16, 2026 at 8:48 pm by Mary Pezzulo

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In the World that is Passing Away 2026-09-16T20:48:07-04:00 Mary Pezzulo

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The guinea pig started to die, a day or two ago.

Lady Mcfluff came into the house in 2021, as a tenth birthday present for my Adrienne. Adrienne will turn fifteen next Tuesday. That means the guinea pig is now something over five years old, geriatric for a cavy. Any time you get with a guinea pig over the age of four is a blessing. This summer she’s been picking at her food instead of eating it with gusto. Last week, I noticed she was having trouble keeping her balance when she sat on my shoulder, even though that’s her favorite spot. In the past, if I’ve cuddled her in my arms or sat with her on my lap, she’d run right up to my shoulder and sit there like a parrot, happily chirping in my ear. But last weekend she twisted herself around and fell to the sofa cushion next to me. After that, things progressed rapidly. On Saturday night she could no longer move her legs in tandem. Yesterday, she was drowsing, unable to scoot around the cage or eat or drink. We cuddled her and said our goodbyes.

On the one hand, this is all perfectly straightforward. Death is a part of nature, built into everything around us. To be alive is to be in a constant state of approaching death. To have a heartbeat is to be a thing whose heart will someday stop beating. To adopt a pet is to accept that someday, you will say goodbye to the pet. Slowly shutting down over the course of a few days is the most peaceful death imaginable for a cavy. This is normal.

On the other hand, there’s a terrible sense of betrayal when a guinea pig dies. The death of any pet is a tragedy. But guinea pigs passing away seems especially unjust. Cats are graceful and aloof, and dogs have their moments of nobility, so we accept them as fellow adults from time to time. Guinea pigs are always children. They never stop acting like greedy toddlers. It feels that they ought to be allowed to go on being toddlers forever, but they do get old, and then they are gone.

When we bought Lady Mcfluff, Adrienne was still a lonely homeschooled child. I hadn’t yet lost hope that I’d have another baby. My stalker was still alive. My religious trauma was far fresher and more painful than it’s been lately. So, when Lady Mcfluff started to pass, my mind went back to an old dark place.

This afternoon, I went downtown to buy a tiny grave marker.

There’s a shop on Fourth Street that sells all kinds of antique and gently used Catholic memorabilia. I had driven past the place several times, but never been in it before. This time, I went inside, to see if they had a cheap lawn statue of Saint Francis. Lady Mcfluff’s cage has always been in the corner of the living room under the picture of Saint Francis, the patron of animals. I thought it would be an appropriate memorial.

The shop was about what I expected: a cross section of colorful items, some expensive and some cheap. There were chaplets and bird baths, candle holders and prayer cards. There was a ridiculous gumball machine filled with patron saint medals of all kinds for a quarter each. There were beat up old breviaries and mass-market paperbacks. There were icons and prints of paintings from every era of Catholic church art history. Some of the paintings and statues for sale were lovely and some were hideous. There was nothing wrong with it. It was just like every other Catholic gift shop I’d ever visited in my life. I hope they make a lot of money. But browsing the shelves, I found myself feeling lonelier than I have in awhile. There was a time when my relationship with the Church was simple, and it will never be simple again.

Random things trigger my trauma. I can’t possibly list all the ones that do ahead of time. Prints from the Book of Kells and other Medieval texts are harmless. Tacky pastel paintings of a white, rosy cheeked Virgin Mary often trigger. Statues of the Virgin of Guadalupe with a deep skin tone only trigger occasionally. Gory crucifixes and vernicles often comfort me right up until they do the opposite. Paintings of Saint Therese awkwardly holding a bouquet make me anxious. Fluffy-winged baby angels and ridiculous paintings of archangels in suits of armor are harmless, though I don’t often like to look at Archangel Raphael. I wish Saint Clare would go away forever. I can’t stand Saint Pio or the children from the Fatima apparitions. The thought of Saint Oscar Romero always fills me with awe. I will always love and admire Pope Saint John the Twenty-Third. Even if I were an atheist, I would feel a deep kinship with Saint Joan of Arc. Saint John of the Cross is my best friend. I love Jesus more than ever, though it’s a complicated love and not a simple, happy one.

I can’t not be Catholic. I can’t not believe. But I have accepted that the only Catholicism that could possibly be real is the one I’ve found here in the real world, not some fantasy paradise where Catholics are always right and always act the way they should and the people who point out the sicknesses in the Church are all evil. That is a deeply complicated Catholicism.

I can’t not be human. The only life I can ever live is a human life, in a fallen and broken world where the innocent suffer and beautiful things die. The only world there is, is the world that is passing away. The world that is passing away is so beautiful but it also hurts.

The only God that could be real in such a terrible world, is a suffering God Who journeys with us into death.

I found myself holding a suitable statue of Saint Francis, just the thing for the corner of the garden near the rose bush, with the vague feeling that a Mary Pezzulo a thousand miles away from me was crying, but I wasn’t.

I went home without buying the statue. I may come and get it tomorrow, if it’s still there.

I took the guinea pig in my arms one last time.

She squeaked a little, and then she struggled, and then she made a noise like a sneeze, and that was all.

Most High, all-powerful, good Lord,
Yours are the praises, the glory, the honor, and all blessings.

To You alone, Most High, do they belong,
and no man is worthy to mention Your name.

Praised be You, my Lord, with all your creatures;
especially Brother Sun, who is the day, and through whom You give us light.

And he is beautiful and radiant with great splendor,
and bears a likeness to You, Most High One.

Praised be You, my Lord, through Sister Moon and the stars;
in heaven You formed them clear and precious and beautiful.

Praised be You, my Lord,
through those who give pardon for Your love,
and bear infirmity and tribulation.

Blessed are those who endure in peace
for by You, Most High, they shall be crowned.

Praised be You, my Lord,
through our Sister Bodily Death,
from whom no living creature can escape.

And then it was night.

Mary Pezzulo is the author of Meditations on the Way of the Cross, The Sorrows an d Joys of Mary, and Stumbling into Grace: How We Meet God in Tiny Works of Mercy.

Steel Magnificat operates almost entirely on tips. To tip the author, donate to “The Little Portion” on paypal or Mary Pezzulo on venmo

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