The End of Things
I have inherited a life like grass, plucked for dandelion chain necklaces and crushed by tennis shoes. A lifespan of mist, its beads suspended in space for two breaths before vanishing. I’m told the place to be is not in the center of the dance floor, but the funeral home; that sorrow yields a wildly rich harvest that could never be produced by a year of sunshine. As a result of life’s fast fade, the wise are found dwelling on rocks sturdier than flesh and dreaming of invisible treasures, while the foolish build barns on sand and stuff them like Thanksgiving birds. At the end of their days, the wise shed their bodies as simply as the taking down of a tent, while the foolish craft an image of Taj Mahal grandeur only to have it snatched away unexpectedly. The tent dwellers’ life is one of giving and loss, while those constructing marble motes preserve and bejewel at all cost. When life glitters, the wise cry, “Vanity!” while the fool rolls around in it like the pig in his mud, wearing it all the way to the casket and into the dirt.
The other day I was watching an old program interviewing the missionary Dr. Helen Roseveare. Although bright as a light bulb, with a title to boot, she decided to number her days and spend them in a bush hospital in what is now the Democratic Republic of the Congo in the 1950’s and 60’s. Instead of frolicking on the green hillsides of her homeland, she set up camp in a place with few resources, eternal humidity, and political unrest. During the country’s civil war, she was raped, beaten, and imprisoned. Clips with this gray-haired saint on YouTube are often fuzzy with poor audio and an interviewer hair sprayed to high heaven. However, I have watched every one because of the radiance of Helen’s face.
You would think that folks living for the next life would be dreadful in the present world. Those giving up the luxuries of today for the rewards of tomorrow could be especially out-of-touch and out-of-style, with a demeanor designed for visitations and the DMV office. However, Helen’s face, in spite of trauma and wrinkles, had a glow that I would exchange the most gorgeous physical feature for. Her certainty of God’s care and goodness over the most horrific events in her life stirred my desires for things larger than life.
Turns out, those living beyond the breath of current days are the most alive in the here and now. They are free to throw off all restraint because they know this isn’t it. They can laugh and weep the hardest because they believe there’s no escaping the affection of their Father. Their reputation and possessions are like dollar-store toys, easily cracked and just as easily discarded. Such disposable playthings cannot dictate the direction of their money and mind. Risks are taken, mistakes given space for. The beauty of forests, strong espresso, and melodies are enjoyed all the more, because they whisper truths about their Creator and make one anticipate the day when his eyes twinkle across the table.
It feels unnatural to think of endings when my world is blooming with beginnings. In my belly right now flops a fetus who is causing my navel to rise and fall like a red and white bobber with a walleye beneath it. To house another human is so wonder-invoking that I feel inclined to sing an everlasting ode to life in an operatic voice. And because God is the Creator and giver of life, these Broadway-sized emotions seem appropriate.
And yet, even my velvet-skinned children, spinning and tumbling in their undies and pink skin around the living room like living Gumbie dolls, are moving towards death. It will be a mercy if I instruct them to number their days more diligently than their math sums and a steady rock beneath their feet to warn them not to chase the wind.