Left Behind
In the fall of 2014, my aunt asked me if I wanted to see the Nicholas Cage version of the flick, “Left Behind.” Glaring at her I answered with an unequivocal “No, not a good idea.” The last thing in the world I wanted to see was loved ones taken in mass by death and disappearance when I was trying to remain tied to those I love. The world as I knew it, was unraveling at the seams with my mother recently placed on hospice and my husband in the fight for his life with Alzheimer’s.
The other day while sharing insecurities about our futures, I brought up that old invitation. “Now aren’t you glad we didn’t go see that ‘Left Behind’ movie?” Then I retorted, “On the other hand, maybe we should have. Surely there were some clues to ‘what’s the next step.” Unfortunately, a part of the casualties of 2020, we have both become widows.
We are not alone. Unlike anything any of us have experienced in several generations, the unusual rise in mortality created a surge in bereavements normally predicted to spread across decades.
Numb and shell-shocked, most of us continue to point fingers at Covid. However, this omnipresent rush to the mortuary indicated collateral damage relating to pandemic isolation, as much as the virus itself. An overtaxed health system escalating fear of well-checks, conditions floating without discovery, the quiet crisis of the undiagnosed enhanced a wave of death the likes most of us have never seen.
Injured without pardon, even the customary procedures regarding death were altered. Omission of funeral gatherings and natural ways in which we help each other shoulder burden through times of despair were deleted. Now, more families than not, seem to be stuck in the disorder of unmitigated loss. Coming out of this pandemic feels more akin to wandering around a crash site after a train wreck. The little miracles of consolation are hidden behind trauma. It is no wonder the term ‘survived by’ has a predominant feeling of being ‘left behind.’
Grief. A loss. Although commonly known as it pertains to a relationship, we as a collective are experiencing magnified absence and the broken expectations of what our lives should have been. Grief exposes fear and weaknesses, even among the faithful. This maze of evaluations attempting to find meaning to lives interrupted, has delivered insecurity to an uncomfortable percentage of the population. Connections are lost.
Watching my husband Frank fade toward the end for the last five and a half years, only accentuated what others called my ‘long goodbye’ through Alzheimer’s. Grief was no stranger to me. Multitudes have told me how fortunate I was, because at least I was prepared. I too, thought the lack of surprise would have kept me from falling apart. Boy, was I the fool.
More than I wish to admit, I have struggled and stumbled. I still do. Making the choice to lock myself in my bedroom and bury my head in a pillow, there are times I think I can sleep until I outgrow the emptiness. Awaking, I fear my only accomplishment has been compounded heartache and a manifestation of self-imposed inertia. Barricading the possibility of a single breath of wind in my sails, actions pause before they start. Even the smallest of tasks fall into predestined failure.
For a phase of life that is inescapable by any of us, why is it impossible to be able to tell each other when the agony ceases or just simply share advice about a better way to process each day? Mourning, one of the most unpredictable time lines known to humanity, no single words are capable of soothing all. I had to wonder if this was so hard for me, how could I possibly console others whose loss was unforeseen.
Scars of reality hit me when my daughter said, “Maybe you can start to be normal again.” I understood what she meant. Years of caretaking, a way of life never intended, took me away from what is considered normal. Even I was surprised by the truth in my instantaneous reply, “That normal was empty. You can’t go back. Love changes you and I could never be the person I was before like nothing ever happened.”
Reduced to the lethargy of forgotten intention, I feel like a string that has been cut, floating and meandering without relationship. The more I thought about it, I realized a loss of purpose must be a common denominator of grief. Of course it is. Love creates actions of many kinds, but more clearly, it creates purpose.
As a Catholic, much like seeking mentorship, we study the lives of the saints regarding their holiness as examples of bearing various forms of suffering while never losing sight of God’s healing love. Etched in the impression of victory over despair, the extensive list of widowed saints is hard to dismiss. Their heartfelt commitment as holy women of God seemed to aid rather than hinder their ability to press on while forming communities, healing the sick, comforting the lonely and feeding the poor. Unable to bring alive the past, I wondered how they survived and realized transformative purpose.
I get it. We see the goodness that has been taken away from us. It is far too easy to assume what is left behind is nothing more than broken crippled lines. Ends straggling, detached from mission. An interruption to life’s plan, death feels like an impasse. Left behind, we wait, wondering where we belong. What will it take to reconnect and find our place?
It dawned on me that I had gone through all of this before. For nearly a decade I had absolutely no idea what tomorrow would bring. No plans, no commitments away from the nursing home. The way of life we once knew, was not only diminished, it was almost completely absent.
An unplanned circumstance changed our course and the only thing that kept our story alive was the fact that we did not abandon love. In turn, the very travesty that came upon us brought unexpected insight by love through illness. Granted, these were not the things we had chosen to do, but the connections that happened through extended acts of care made the entire journey feel as if it had value. Seeds of grace radiated far beyond our little circle. The indeterminate existence couldn’t contain us in a box labeled ‘suffering.’
How true it is when even in adversity, God finds a way to create a beautiful good. He does not leave us behind as scraps on the floor or abandoned at a station full of strangers. He promised. He does not forsake us. I have proof. But I need to get from here to there to feel it again.
Often, I think of life as a divine tapestry. Colors and threads interwoven when only the creator has the image of what the design will eventually be. Like threads, purpose changes, pulled taut in places and loosed to a softer weave in others. I look at this time as the relaxed portion of the tapestry, tinted with patience and trust.
Our lives are like that. Broken threads with variance of dyes and thickness, weave their way to connect as visioned by only the artist. In grief, we fail to recognize we remain as the active stitches. Adding hues to the art of life, our colors deepen and yarns are strengthened by the tension of having loved. God made us that way.
Even though we cannot see it right now, we are not randomly left behind. God has plans for good in everything. The only thing that stands in the way, is whether or not we decide to let Him use us for His purpose. I thought of those widowed saints. In the same way, all they had left was patience and trust, not the grand scheme of being the artist.
This ‘I must be lost’ feeling of grief is not going to stay. As much as I miss Frank, and all the loved ones that have gone before, I feel somehow linked to both heaven and earth. There is something beautiful about that. I am connected to artwork I cannot see, but I know it is best to let myself be used as fiber wrapped in the threads.
The magnificent bonds we had in the first place were created by God to transmit through us, not end with us. The strings that held us tight in relationship become glistens of silver and gold, designed to include others in the path until we are all rejoined together again. How else could one explain that great acts of love often are accomplished through absences in the heart?
We try to hang onto what ‘was’ and forget that change is constant. We are a part of an ever-evolving masterpiece, even when it does not feel that way. Those we love are not gone, the ties that bind are just extended. We remain to carry on and connect others to the love we have been taught.
I will grow again, but for now I will accept slow transformations. I do not need to plan and create. God is doing that. All I need to do is continue to love where I can. God did not leave me left behind and untethered – He merely lengthened the strings of my purpose.