On feast of St. Francis, remembering that all creatures make up 'one family'

St. Francis was probably turning over in his grave. A blatant contradiction between his love for creation and modern-day reality was taking place in sunny northern California.

Here we were, chasing after bazillions of ecologically unfriendly Styrofoam peanuts blowing all over the long-term parking lot at Oakland International Airport. The peanuts had erupted as my friend Nancy and I were liberating from a cardboard packing case a heavy, nearly three-feet wooden carving of the saint from Assisi.

I had purchased the whimsical, smiling folk-art piece during our vacation from a Santa Fe, N.M., gallery. Finding the box too large to fit into the back of my friend’s compact car, we began unpacking it in the parking lot that windy afternoon.

Between fits of giggling -- and dispatching the box and peanuts in a trash bin -- we placed our unusual passenger in the car. The seat belt fit him just fine.

Now 14 years later, my smiling St. Francis statue has served as the perfect backdrop for my favorite backyard critter stories -- tales that have matched the real saint’s energy of compassion, generosity, loyalty and joy toward all creatures and creation.

Saturday marks the feast day of the founder (1181/82-1226) of the Franciscan order.

Remember the story of Francis’ preaching to the birds? Friar Jack Wintz, senior editor of St. Anthony Messenger, wrote in a 2007 article how Clare and Sylvester, two of his compatriots, encouraged him to continue preaching the good news of God’s saving love, rather than to retire to a life of prayer.

Following their talk, Francis headed for the marketplace but was detoured by a flock of singing birds. Wintz cited St. Bonaventure’s report of the incident: “He went right up to them … saying, ‘Oh, birds, my brothers and sisters, you have a great obligation to praise your Creator, who clothed you in feathers and gave you wings to fly with, provided you with pure air …”

The birds, Bonaventure wrote, “showed their joy in a remarkable fashion: They began to stretch their necks, extend their wings, open their beaks and gaze at him attentively.” He recalled that though Francis walked among them “with amazing fervor of spirit,” the birds did not move until he made the sign of the cross and gave permission to depart. As for Francis, he saw himself negligent for not preaching to the birds before and vowed to tend to them.

Said Wentz, “The more that Francis grew in wisdom and in his understanding that God’s saving love goes out to all creatures, the more he began to see that all creatures make up one family.” In another story, Francis encouraged the emperor to have citizens scatter grain on the roads on Christmas day, so the birds and other creatures could also participate in the celebration.

“St. Francis refused to be a human chauvinist – presuming that he was to be saved apart from the rest of creation,” Wintz said.

For me, the birds’ response to Francis was that of sheer love and joy. Whether they actually understood his words, they certainly picked up on his generosity of spirit. They didn’t have to be afraid.

I have seen other animals react with similar sensitivity toward humans, as well as their own species. Call it anthropomorphizing but if, as Francis believes, we are all members of the same family, do we also not share some common traits?

Gratitude comes to mind. Twice a day, the neighborhood contingent of raccoons would visit our Damuth Street backyard in Oakland, helping themselves to the dry cat food and water we supplied for our indoor-outdoor felines.

One spring, a mother and her seven kits arrived on the scene. I will never forget the morning when the tiniest of the brood stood up and leaned his little paws against the glass door. On the ground next to him was a blue glass bead, which as I cracked the door he picked up and dropped it inside – his way of saying “thank you” for the food?

Or how about the virtues of love, compassion and protection?

One day Hobo Pie, a black-and-white tuxedo cat I inherited from my neighbor Dot, brought a little female Maine Coon cat to the back door. She was starving and pregnant. I fed her, of course, and gave her a name: “Green,” for her beautiful bottle-green eyes, and “Tara,” after a Buddhist bodhisattva of compassion.

Five weeks later, it was obvious Tara had given birth. But where were her kittens, and how was I going to get them to the no-kill shelter? She appeared one morning at the door with a fluffy orange kitten in her mouth. Tara looked up, her green eyes pleading. When I opened the door, she deposited him behind our large sofa. Four trips later, she collapsed in exhaustion on the kitchen floor, having brought her five kittens to a safe place.

Some animals embody whimsicality. When a neighborhood boy asked if I could take his kitten because the family was moving, this pushover said “Yes.” The little male tabby was only six weeks old but his presence filled our entire apartment. He was larger than life, pouncing on the other cats, driving them crazy; he travelled from lap to lap, purring, demanding petting and charming us all.

At first, it was difficult to find a fitting name, but inspiration arrived as a friend and I were practicing for our next peace dance meeting. One of the circle dances had a hand gesture mimicking the Sufi practice of polishing the rust from one’s heart. As we rehearsed the movements, our new kitty sat up and began imitating the gesture with his front paws. We were astounded.

As he continued the motion, his name came to me: Divine Cuteness, DC for short. DC never stopped, in his own way, polishing the rust from his little feline heart, all 15 years of his life.

DC loved the St. Francis statue and would often perch on the stand next to it. I will never know why in this life, but perhaps he will fess up when the two of us reunite on the other side of the veil.

And meet the real saint, face to face.