Memorial Day 2020 has me all up in my feels…

There is something about not seeing the end… something about not knowing what lie ahead… and something about moving forward as if we did.

Would we behave differently… if we knew “where the sidewalk ends (shout out to Shel)?”  If we knew it was the last time we would hug someone, would we have held on for a few more seconds?  Would we have taken a moment to stay for the credits in the movie theatre, if we knew it were the last movie?  Would we have had people into our homes more often, if we knew we soon could not?

We currently have no f*%@ing idea where the sidewalk ends.  We cannot see it, and we have no clue if the path is straight or winding ahead.  It is like blind faith.  OH yeah, there it is folks: “Faith.”

By definition, the word means “to believe in something, unseen.”  Ironically, believing in the unseen is highly counterintuitive to human nature.  Can I get an AMEN?!

So here we are… in the midst of a worldwide Pandemic… WTF!?… we find ourselves believing that the path doesn’t end before our feet.  That, perhaps, we cannot see it because it was not intended to be seen.   It is more rationale to look behind us, where we can tangibly trace our path and how far we have come.

We can visualize the last time we… hugged… stood in line next to a stranger… felt good… had confidence in tomorrow… and even a little arrogance about conquering our path laid before us.

This is kind of a jacked-up way to be reminded that we are not in charge.  We have no clue where the d@*n sidewalk ends, yet we can look back upon the steps we have made.  We can cherish those “lasts” that we didn’t even realize were “lasts.” Or, we look at those “lasts” we knew as an even larger blessing…

I think about my grandmother every single day.  She shaped me with tough love and fierce affection, unlike any other.  One of the most difficult moments of my life was knowing the “last” time I would see her.  I flew across the continent to be by her side.  Dementia had won and time was no longer a gift.  I lay beside her quietly begging her to let go.  I was devastated and only consoled with the knowing how she would soar to Jesus and be free.  I knew it was the last time I would see her.  She held breath, but nothing else.  Yet the knowing did not feel like a gift.  It was pure, unbridled, sorrow.

I was not until years later that I realized the gift of the “last” goodbye.  Sadness can be blinding… and often difficult to see ahead through it.

I have read stories of those who have succumbed to this virus… surrounded only by their medical team.  No family to comfort them and in a hospital filled with strangers.  Those stories make my heart both hurt in tragedy and swell in the gratitude of my “last” goodbye to Bettye.

I think it is fair to say that this Pandemic has b!+ch slapped us all…

There may be no better day than this, Memorial Day, to remember our world and the people in it.  Those who hold places in history, before us on the path, are worthy of remembrance.  The ones whom we have loved and lost have paved a way for us to move forward, even through our grief.  The world that we once knew should always be remembered.  It may, perhaps, be gone… but it will not be forgotten.

If the “lasts” are more appreciated as we look backward, then let them guide our way where we stand as we look forward.

Above all, let us always remain FAITHful knowing that Jesus paved the way.

 

“a voice of one calling in the wilderness, ‘Prepare the way for the Lord, make straight paths for him.’”  Mark 1:3

 

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