The hamster looked a bit frazzled.

There’s something wrong with Flannery,” I said to my husband. “She doesn’t seem her usual cheery self.”

We had been through this before with other hamsters, and we knew a hamster’s life span is rather short. But we weren’t ready to bid this one farewell.

You see, our 4-year-old grand nephew, Noah, was coming for a week-long visit, and he had talked about little else than the “ham-ter” for months.

When the car bearing Noah, his teen-age brothers, his mother, and grandmother pulled up in front of the house, Flannery was nowhere to be seen. She had retreated into the corner of her aquarium where she usually spent the day, emerging at night to run on her wheel.

The front door opened, and the little boy tore into the house. Spotting the aquarium, he cried out in joy “The ham-ter, the ham-ter!” and then took up his post, waiting for the tiny animal to emerge.

“She doesn’t feel well,” I said, wanting to prepare him for what might happen in the next day or two. “So she is sleeping more than usual.”

He was disappointed, but only momentarily, since there was a nearby playground to explore, plus treats in the kitchen to consume.

The next day, while he was outside playing, I took his mother – my niece – aside and explained the situation.

“We are really hoping the hamster doesn’t die while Noah is here, “ I said sadly, “but she seems to be going downhill pretty fast.”

I didn’t want anything to cloud this child’s visit. After all, this is the fellow who sits patiently at the supper table while the adults say the standard Catholic grace, and at the sound of the word “amen” raises his arms and shouts, “Alleluia!”

That evening, we saw the little boy hunkered down by the aquarium, waiting for a glimpse of the “ham-ter.” I was delighted when, just for a second, a little whiskered nose poked out of the corner, and the child lit up with glee.

The next day, the hamster died.

While the boys were out with their mother, my husband and I buried the animal in a tiny box in the backyard. Then I fretted about Noah.

“Maybe we should just go out and get another one,” I suggested. “Then he wouldn’t know Flannery had died. “

“Or we could just tell him the hamster is still in the aquarium, sleeping,” I added.

I anguished over this decision for the rest of the day, and then gave my niece a whispered update on the hamster situation after she’d put Noah to bed.

The next morning, the little boy didn’t even mention the “ham-ter,” because we were all heading to the zoo to see a full line-up of furry beasts.

It was later in the day when the topic came up again.

“What should we tell Noah?” I asked my niece. 

“Oh, there’s no problem at all,” she replied. “I told him that the hamster had gone home to Jesus.”

And that was that. No hand wringing, no weeping, no deception. 

In that moment, I remembered the passage where Jesus told his disciples they had to change their hearts and become like little children to enter the kingdom of heaven.

I thought of all the years I had mourned the passing of aunts, uncles, and my own dear parents. I thought of all times I had dreaded the thought of my own death. All the times I had gone out of my way to avoid even talking about death.

But what if it really is that simple? What if we could just say, “We’re going home to Jesus”?  And then add:  “Alleluia!”