The Galumphing Beast and the Wacky Army of Good: A Fractured Fairy Tale

Generally, I consider myself an optimist.

So how to explain my recent, occasional bouts of envy while scanning the day's obituaries?

 (Yes, I know this is not the kind of thing to discuss in public.  Or in public writing.  Or possibly even between very close friends.  Still, that strange spark is there and I wonder if maybe there is some value in exploring the why of it.  Besides, this is the Facebook season of Unfriending, so what's the harm?)

It started happening a few weeks ago.  There in our back room, with daytime still wrapped up in the stars, I would stumble upon the death notices and find myself sighing a bit.  A longing kind of sigh. . . . even though I knew that these obituaries represented deep loss for someone.  My gosh, my own mother died just a few months ago, her absence still echoing in my days and nights.

So what's up with me?

As a very traditional  front-to-back reader of the newspaper, typically I've already scanned the national news before happening upon the announcement that there are fewer of us today.  Or at least that we are now a bit younger.  I suspect it is in this orderly approach to the day's news that I can locate the source of my own disorder.

I read the national news.  Then I read the obituaries.  Then I sigh.

The strange political beast that lurches and galumphs--wildly unhinged and uncivilized--has unhinged me, as well, it seems.

Even my sleep patterns have changed.  While hot flashes and full bladder still rouse me from time to time, they are nothing compared to the endless, dark hours spent sleepless and staring at my ceiling, heart pounding and mind spinning as I wonder what is happening to us.

Maybe this explains the not-so-proud thought that occasionally seeps into my head as I read about lives no longer lived.  At least they won't have to witness this mess, I mutter.  And then, I scan the small room to make sure that nobody has heard me.  Because I am kind of ashamed for thinking that.

So, what does an optimist do with a chapter like this?

Well, an answer came to me while I was walking with Finn the other morning.  It's possible it's kind of a lame answer, but it's a start.  And I could use a start right now.  Be warned, though, I'm pretty sure it might be kind of lame.

While I've always generally been a fan of God--though not a fan of every chapter of his books (some of which are downright weird and violent)--I've never really understood or been attracted to the idea of eternal life.  I just get kind of tired thinking that the gig is ongoing.  At least for me, personally.

Still,  because I am very comfortable living with ridiculous contradictions, I also like to think that my loved ones who've gone before me are somewhere in the ether, still alive, winning at poker and eating great food (while I'm also hoping that they aren't checking in on me when I'm not at my best).

Enter optimism.

What if. . . what if all those good folks who have died before us and who loved us despite our worst sides are now, in their new forms, able to do things for us that they couldn't have, while still on earth? What if they have been transformed, in some sort of super-cool, ultra-galactic way, into awesome interceders, able to bonk some sense into knuckleheads and buoy us up, as well?

Frankly, I like the idea.  I like thinking of my funny, smart brother and mom and dad and  step father and father-in-law as wispy superheroes, able to see much better than I can, so that they know where to swoop down and do some good.   I like thinking that we are still a team, even if the rest of us, still stuck to the earth, are like the second-team benchwarmers.  But I know that we'll all get some playing time.  Because that's the kind of coach God is.  An awesome one who plays everyone.  And who has some plan that will probably put the W in our column.

Plus, our awesome uniforms and teammates.  How can we lose with uniforms and teammates like that?!