World Building

Meditations on loss

Death seems to be swirling around the perimeter of my world lately. A couple of weeks ago a friend of mine lost his wife to flu complications. That same day, another friend was trying to get out to visit her uncle on his deathbed. This week a third friend is traveling to Arizona to say goodbye to her father for the last time. And now this disaster in Haiti has left perhaps a quarter of a million dead, with more likely to follow them as hunger and disease take their toll.

None of these events has touched me directly. I have been unusually blessed throughout my life: the Grim Reaper’s visits to my personal world have been infrequent. Two of my grandparents and both of my parents are still alive, as are all of my aunts, uncles and cousins. The last person close to me whom I lost was my great-grandfather, scant months shy of his 100th birthday.

And yet I am not unaffected. I feel like I am one thread in the middle of a tapestry that is fraying at the edges. I feel someone pulling on the weave, snatching out threads and leaving those they were connected to alone, dangling, half-stripped themselves. My heart cries out at the pain around me — There must be something I can do! — but I feel very small and fragile, and the comfort I can offer seems paltry in comparison to the pain.

What can I do? Only what I can: Give what I am able. Help in the small ways available to me. Pray. Love. Offer solace. Encourage others to do the same.

It’s not enough. It’s a drop of water on an inferno.

But if all of us do what we can, those drops join together to become a flood.

The world is on fire, it’s more than I can handle
Tap into the water, try to bring my share
Try to bring more, more than I can handle
Bring it to the table — I bring what I am able

–Sarah McLachlan, “World on Fire”