Tuesday, October 2, 2012

Lost or found

While I was making the trek from the small town we live in to another small town some twenty miles away to watch my youngest son play soccer, I made a wrong turn.  For several miles, I found myself wandering from one desolate country road to another, trying to get back on course.  As I drove down a long stretch of lonely      highway, it occurred to me that no one knew exactly where I was.  At that moment, I realized if something happened to me, no one would even know where to begin looking.  And then, even more disconcerting, the thought that it could be a very long time before anyone even missed me crossed my mind.

Being all alone and a little lost certainly had something to do with the thoughts whirling around in my head.  But another significant event of the past week played a part in it as well.  You see, my uncle passed away last week.  He was my dad's brother.  I hadn't seen him in probably thirty years.  I wouldn't have recognized him even if I did see him.  I know nothing about him really...nothing good.  And he knew nothing about me...nothing at all.  We were, for all intents and purposes, strangers...genetically related but in no other way connected.

What I do know about my uncle is that during his life, he had opportunities...he squandered.  Wives...he abandoned.  Children...he failed.  He had talents...he wasted.  Dreams...he threw away.  He had  potential...he left undeveloped.  He once had a family...he died alone.

It's tragic and pathetic and sad.  To live a whole life and have nothing at the end of it.  To die alone with not even one person to hold your hand as you leave this world.  To live a whole life only to end up having strangers bury your body without so much as one word of eulogy spoken over you or one tear shed in loving memory.

I wonder at what point my uncle got lost.  What wrong turn took him so far off the path that he never found his way back?  Who knows, maybe he never tried to find his way back.  Or maybe he never realized he was lost.

Whether by choice or chance, because of circumstance or consequence, my uncle became the worst kind of lost...hopelessly lost.  My mom said he'd call about once a year, always drunk, usually wanting to rehash the past that had led to his wayward life.  But he never asked for any kind of reconciliation.  He never sought redemption.  He didn't seek to be part of a family that surely would have for made room for him, had he wanted back in.

He seemed somehow satisfied to live with his discontent.  Crazy as that sounds, he isn't the only one I know who lives that way...satisfied with their discontent.  Doing nothing to help themselves.  Never trying to be healed.  Not wanting to get better. Hanging on to a past that only suffocates any hope of happiness a person might have.  Never turning around even when they know they're headed in the wrong direction.  Staying lost seemingly on purpose.

I don't understand it.  For me, even that friendly little welcome sign greeting me as I finally arrived at my destination brought me relief, even joy.  Who wouldn't want to be found?  Who wouldn't want to loved?  Who would choose to be lost?


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