To Love, Even When It Hurts

Trauer über Rava

Our Friend Deborah was there, when Rava went through her last months:

When I first met Rava, I knew she carried fragility alongside her gentle strength. Her illness was part of her, but so was her grace, her warmth, and her ability to trust. It would have been easy to protect myself by holding back — to admire her from afar, to care for her without letting her too deeply into my heart. That is a natural human response: to avoid risk, to avoid pain.

But with Rava, I chose differently. I chose to open myself completely, knowing it could hurt me at any moment.

And what I received was a gift beyond measure. Morning greetings at her stable for breakfast, the joy of offering her cherry and apple leaves — her favorites. The quiet companionship of simply sitting together, watching the sun sink beyond the meadow. With time, Justus the cat joined us, and the three of us became a small evening circle of friendship.

When Rava’s last moments came, Justus came to say goodbye. It felt like he knew. Now, Justus and I still climb the hill to sit beneath her favorite cherry tree, watching the sunset in the place where she used to rest.

Yes, grief is here. The hill feels emptier. The air carries a silence where her presence once was. But grief is also proof of love — it lingers only because love was real, deep, and alive.

Loving Rava was never about pretending she would stay forever. It was about being present while she was here. About offering companionship, care, and tenderness without fear of what it might cost me later. And though my heart is heavy now, I would not trade that bond for the safety of distance.

Because to love, even when it hurts, is to honor life itself. It is to live fully in the moment we are given, to offer what we can, and to let love root itself so deeply that not even death can undo it.

Rava is gone, yet she remains with us — in sunsets shared, in the memory of her gentleness, and in the courage she taught me: that it is always worth it to love.

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