A Christmas Tale
By Audrey Thomasson
Father Henry Ross was the rector of London's St. Augustine and St. Faith
Church—near St. Paul's Cathedral. He was a soft touch when it came to
helping those in need and in the lean years following the Depression,
there were plenty of hungry and needy people.
So when one church official made several attempts to boot out a feline
intruder that had spent the night curled up in a corner of the church,
the rector came to its rescue setting out a bowl of milk for the bony
little tabby cat.
"If you feed her, she won't want to leave," the official warned.
But the rector's mind was made up. He decided to keep her upstairs in
the rectory until someone claimed her. After a notice in the church
bulletin produced no results, Father Henry decided the cat would become
the church cat and named her Faith—after her persistence to stay in
the church.
Over the next four years, Faith earned her keep by clearing mice from
the church buildings. She became a regular at every service, snuggling
at Henry's feet in the pulpit to listen to his sermons. And for special
occasions, she took a place in the front pew. Parishioners loved her.
One day when she didn't wake Henry for breakfast, he went looking for
her. Imagine his surprise when he found she had given birth to a kitten
during the night.
Sunday's church bulletin carried the official birth announcement and, to
honor the new addition, the choir sang All things bright and beautiful.
A couple of weeks later, while Henry worked at his desk, Faith began
scratching at the door to go downstairs. Once he opened it, she
proceeded down the stairs, checking to make sure Henry was following
her.
Faith then scratched at the basement door and when it was opened, down
she went.
Henry kept the doors ajar and returned to his work. Later, he became
curious when he noticed the cat carrying her kitten around.
When she returned for her evening meal and then disappeared again, he
decided to find out what was going on.
Making his way through the dark, cold basement, Henry pushed aside
dozens of boxes filled with dusty old books and sheet music in search of
his cat.
Finally, he located Faith curled up on the dirty floor in the corner
with her baby. He gently picked up the kitten and returned to the
rectory. Faith followed close behind, protesting loudly the entire way.
He placed the kitten in her warm basket and went to the church to give
the evening's sermon. This time, Faith did not attend. And when Henry
returned to the rectory, the basket was empty again. Sure enough, the
cat had returned to her basement hideout with her kitten.
Henry took the kitten upstairs, but by the next morning, they were both
back in the basement.
After a third move failed to keep them upstairs, Henry decided to
respect Faith's wishes. He cleared away some of the boxes and made a
place for her basket.
Faith happily settled in with her kitten.
The next night, the German's bombed London in the first of their blitz
on the capital city. Many homes near the church were destroyed and more
than 400 people died.
In the morning, Henry was called to Westminster. As he rode home on his
bicycle that evening, air-raid sirens started to wail again, so he went
to the nearest shelter where he was forced to spend the night.
At dawn, he returned to the church and his worst fears were realized.
The building was a mass of twisted wreckage with flames rising from the
shattered timbers.
A fireman cautioned him that the badly damaged roof was about to give
way. Undaunted, Henry climbed over the debris toward the place in the
basement he thought Faith and her kitten would be.
He moved timber and rubble, throwing bundles of singed music sheets to
the side as he called for Faith. He followed her cries for help and
found them huddled between the bundles—dirty but unharmed.
Soon after he safely emerged from the church with the cats, the roof
collapsed in a shower of sparks, crashing through the main floor and
burying the basement.
With tears of joy mixed with sorrow, Father Henry hugged the cats.
Five years later, in 1945, the war had ended and the tower bells chimed
at the newly rebuilt church.
It was a sunny October day and a black limousine arrived carrying the
Archbishop of Canterbury. He was there for a special ceremony to present
Faith with the Dickin medal for courage—the first awarded to a
cat.
Forty years later, the church is part of St. Paul's Cathedral Choir
School. The air is always filled with music and choirboys play in the
yard where Father Henry's dear little cat lies buried.
Peace to you and all the world this holiday season.
In January there will be a special eulogy column.
If you would like to honor the memory of a pet lost in 2005, please
Email contact information and the pets name to
[email protected]
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