At church camp this summer, the bishop and I were on our way to the mess hall when we ran into little Mary and her family. Her mother and father were somewhere else preparing for the imminent birth of the second child, and Mary was entrusted to the care of her aunts, an uncle, and grampa and grandma. We stopped to talk to the adults for a bit. Mary interrupted the conversation, something that seems to me allowable for four year olds, to inquire of her aunt, "Don't you have a cat?"

Her aunt replied that once she had had a cat but now had a cat no longer.

"So what happened to the cat?"

"Why, she died. She was an old cat, and she died."

At this reference to the turning of the eternal wheel, Mary said, "That is very sad." And screwed up her face in preparation to cry. All female relatives began to make various sounds designed to make her feel at least a little better. The aunt temporarily most in charge turned to me as the official camp chaplain and suggested maybe I could say something to Mary about death. She said this lightly, and I took advantage of that lightness to respond lightly.

I had over the last couple of days noticed Mary's tendency to find things sad and cry at the drop of a hat so I had no intention of getting hooked into this conversation, instead I said, "Why use a rank amateur when we have a real bishop here, on this very spot?"

Jim, the bishop, had only arrived the night before and did not know what a font of raw emotion this miniature child truly was, so he accepted the challenge. Jim told Mary that he had had a dog for fourteen years and then it had died so he understood her concerns completely.

"Wasn't that sad?" trembled little Mary, tears now on the very edge of her lids.

"Well, yes," he quickly explained, some nervousness now apparent as it grew clear this young lady's emotions were not moving the direction intended, "but that is the way life goes. Fourteen years is a long life for a dog. He was ill and ready to die."

"Did you miss him?" she quavered.

"Of course."

"Oh, that is very sad," little Mary said and then she began to really cry.

As the bishop and I left having accomplished nothing positive I said to him, "Gee Jim, do you think it would help if I went back there and told her how I had my cat put down?"

For I am a tough guy and move through all failure and tragedy with my eyes forward on what needs to be done next. I had put my cat of ten years down without a blink. It was expensively ill and it was therefore gone. No goodbyes, and no second thoughts. "Take her," I said to the vet, "she's yours. How much do I owe you."

At the last service of camp week the community gathered for a Eucharist. As the leader it was my role to say the first words. I looked around at forty people who had been together for a week, had talked about the events of life and hopes and dreams, had grown rather close. So I began by saying, "This is our last service, and as little Mary might say, that is 'very sad.'"

I intended to say it lightly, not caustically, but still lightly, for I have endured without the words far greater sadnesses. Yet, as I approached the critical word, "sad," I felt my chest tighten, my throat constrict. I barely squeezed out the last three syllables, "very sad," and just barely interrupted the tears before they could spill.

What is it that little Mary knows at four years of age that I may just be learning? Is there something to being sad that I have missed? Is there a joy to being sad? Or at least a human necessity?

I am a priest and a businessman. Daily, I suppress my feelings because they will do me no good. I suppress my disappointment at the sale that is lost because I had best get on to the next attempt without disappointment hanging over my head. I suppress my annoyance at the client who cannot learn to listen because annoyance will not help him get better and patience might. And I suppress my sadness at the pains of life because there are sufficient joys available to carry me forward nicely, thank you.

Mary has taught me something. There is a pleasure to be had in allowing myself the moment of sadness. I could allow myself to feel sad at the start of that last service, and the sadness formed a foil for the joy of the service itself. I can allow myself the pleasure of sadness at my sons' passing from childhood, and it forms a foil for the joy of seeing their manhood. I can allow myself sadness at the closing of a client relationship, and it will form a foil for the pleasure of the new relationship with the next client just over the horizon.

When painting with acrylics, the painter starts by toning the canvas, frequently with some neutral color, but often with a color chosen for the background it will give to the paints that are laid on it. Sadness may be the toner that lies under the joys and accomplishments of life.

Some things I just learn slowly. And some things I learn from children. Too often I have ignored my sadness in favor of my work.

My father died of cancer and I experienced no emotion. My mother took care of burying him. I was busy working and broke my rhythm only for the bare essentials, the moment of death, the wake, and the funeral. My mother died of Parkinson's disease and I was only happy for her that she was relieved of her pain. My sisters took care of the arrangements. I had work to do, demands on my time. I showed up for the wake, and I led the service, but my sisters spent the time of mourning through the details. For both my mother and my father, I experienced no sadness and set aside only the minimum of time to regret their passing.

Now that, as little Mary might say, is, in itself, very sad.

The author of this essay is John Cowan. He has written two books of similar essays: Small Decencies and The Common Table Each is approximately 160 pages in paperback. To purchase either book by mail send a check for $10 per book to him at 1498 Goodrich, St. Paul, MN 55105. Price will be negotiated for any order over 20 books. If you wish to discuss consulting or speaking engagements or attendance at a workshop he may be reached by e-mail. His address is Johnedie@aol.com

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