Lost

I haven't really been a big follower of Lost. I have watched a few episodes, but the finale tonight gave me a sense of affirmation that I have been collecting all too easily from my new life. It seems like everywhere I turn I find another confirmation that I am in the right place, drinking the right coffee, avoiding the right bills... as if that was possible. It's this concept of the afterlife. Life after death. Heaven, if you will, and the subjective possibilities of what awaits us when we cross over. The concept of heaven being an collective existence with the people who have been the most important and formative in our life, whichever life or reality we have to recollect, is reminiscent of C.S. Lewis afterlife in The Great Divorce, where the guides through the harsh reality of death were often the most humbling of leaders, people from your life who were somehow beneath you, or presented a reminder of your frailties and flaws. In this season finale, Jack finds himself faced with the reality that all of the time travel and simultaneous realities and memories from dual lives on the island and off, are overshadowed by the timelessness of death. He is surrounded, for whatever the enduring moment of forever feels like, with the people that had the most profound effect on his life. I wonder who my people would be. Looking back, on the chronology of mishaps and blunders and adventures that make up my life, who would be there with me in the timeless forever after? Some are obvious. Family members who have so much influenced me that to take out their effect would cause a tragic domino effect of implosion, and nothing would remain standing in my life. Friends, who, whether in my life for brief moments or long years, shaped who I am, drew the caricature that is my animated life on earth. Some enemies perhaps, the ones who intentionally or not, threw obstacles in my path that rerouted me in an unexpected and sometimes painful direction. And of course, dogs. All of my dogs had better be waiting for me in the hereafter, or I will have words with the powers-that-be.

For the last few days I have struggled with admitting to myself that I am actually praying, but I am. Praying in earnest to god. A god, The god. The one that's got the whole world in his hands. Breathing prayers of thanks and gratitude. Whispering prayers pleading for help, for survival, for open doors and clear paths. Of all of the times in my life this is one in which I am sure I am balanced precariously on the brink of do or die, for me and my girls. It's sink or swim, and although I am fervently ready to swim miles and miles in seas of sharks and piranhas to make this life work, I am haunted by the feeling that my hands are tied and I am utterly at the mercy of this god that hold the sharks and piranhas and miles and miles of seas in his hands. He holds the stamina I need to swim, the confidence I need to float. and he doesn't hold it over my head like a life rope, or dangle it in front of me like a carrot. It is simply here for me to reach out and grab it, as it always is and has been, but I still pray for the eyes to see it and the persistence to stay humble in my fight.

Tomorrow is day one of the new life. Bring it on. (But secretly, I could really use a good hug and somebody to make my lunch for me.)