Are Short Lives Incomplete Lives?

"He left us too soon."

"She was robbed of life early."

"His story was cut short."

Almost every time, maybe every time, someone young dies some form of the above notions get tossed about.  Death is always hard for us mortals, as it should be.  Death's permanency is surely horrifying.  Yet, we seem to have formed some sort of unspoken gradient by which we feel we can measure the completeness of a person's life, and thereby we can also judge the level of tragedy that goes along with that death. 

If someone is a hundred, and they die, we don't even bat an eye.  We marvel at their age.  We say, "Well done."  Some might even say, "I hope I don't live that long."  Most of us nowadays see the eighties as expected.  Reach eighty and all bets are off.  We'll shed a tear for you, but you've gotten your due.  Sixties are when things start to hurt, where the questions start.  Someone dies in their sixties and we can't help but wonder why they didn't make eighty.  There is a sense of loss, of tragedy, but at least there is the notion that they lived somewhat.  Children were probably had, maybe grand kids.  Not a total loss.  If someone is thirty and dies, we are floored.  Twenties, we're gutted.  Teens and below, forget it.  Our minds don't even know how to handle it.  

When people die young, we feel they have been robbed.  So short was their life.  So little did they experience.  So much more was left for them to do and see and feel.  The loss is overwhelming to us.  It is not just for ourselves we mourn, but mostly for them.  We view their lives as tragedy.

Question is, "Is a short story an incomplete story?"

 Absolutely not.

Go read the story, "To Build a Fire," by Jack London.  It is a literary masterpiece.  You will be moved.  You will torn.  You'll feel elation.  You'll feel loss.  All of that, and the story is only fifteen pages long.  That's it.  

Compare that with a Harry Potter novel or one of the Lord of the Rings books.  Those are hundreds and hundreds of pages each.  Thousands of pages to complete the story of each series.  Yet here we have "To Build a Fire" at fifteen pages, and it is a masterpiece.  It does not need anything else to tell it's story.  As a matter of fact, more might even ruin the story.  It's brevity is part of it's power.  We've seen it again and again, particularly in movies, where a beloved short film is taken and extended, only to show us just how perfect the story was in it's short form.  Adding things simply ruined the story.

Now, let's read this:

All the days ordained for me
were written in your book
before one of them came to be.
(Psalm 139:16)

Do you see what I see?  Our days are ordained.  For those who don't know what ordained means, it means numbered, given, set up.  Not only that, but they were so before we even were! With that in mind, there is no such thing as a life cut short.  No one has been robbed of life early.  There is an author, and he doesn't make mistakes.  Every life ends exactly when it should.  

This doesn't mean we don't hurt.  We do, but for us.  We hurt because we miss those who have gone before.  BUT, the beauty is that we are now free to see the beauty in those lives.  We need not feel they were robbed of life. There lives were masterpieces, written by the ultimate author.  Sometimes those stories leave us sad, much like "To Build a Fire," but they are still masterpieces.  They still move us.  They are still complete.  There are long lives that end sad too.   Long life is a good thing.  We know this.  But, let us no longer judge the lives  of those whom have lived briefly as lesser works.  It may feel like we are sticking up for them, like we are for them, but we disrespect their lives.  It would be like judging "To Build a Fire," not based upon its prowess as a literary work, but simply for its length. 

This way we get to revel in the beauty of a short life.  We get to take it in.  Yes, it leaves us wanting more.  All stories do.  Yet, we will be revering the beauty of the work, and respecting that life as we should.  That is the real way to honor those whose lives have ended in youth.

My Soul at Hazard

“I was sheriff of this county when I was 25 years old. Hard to believe. My grandfather was a lawman. Father too. Me and him was sheriffs at the same time, him up in Plano and me out here. I think he’s pretty proud of that. I know I was.

“Some of the old-time sheriffs never even wore a gun. A lot of folks find that hard to believe. Jim Scarborough never carried one. That’s the younger Jim. Gaston Boykins wouldn’t wear one up in Comanche County.

“I always liked to hear about the old-timers. Never missed a chance to do so. You can’t help but compare yourself against the old-timers. Can’t help but wonder how they’d have operated these times.

“There’s this boy I sent to the electric chair at Huntsville here a while back. My arrest and my testimony. He killed a 14-year-old girl. Paper said it was a crime of passion, but he told me there wasn’t any passion to it. Told me he’d been planning to kill somebody for about as long as he could remember. Said if they turned him out, he’d do it again. Said he knew he was going to hell. Be there in about 15 minutes.

“I don’t know what to make of that. I surely don’t. The crime you see now, it’s hard to even take its measure. It’s not that I’m afraid of it. I always knew you had to be willing to die to even do this job. But I don’t want to push my chips forward and go out and meet something I don’t understand. A man would have to put his soul at hazard. He’d have to say, ‘OK. I’ll be part of this world.’”

—   Sheriff Ed Tom Bell from No Country for Old Men

I’m just going to shoot straight here and tell you that life has been pummeling me as of late.  It’s not just one thing.  It’s a general barrage of first world hardship and disappointment.  Now, when I say first world I’m just giving some global context, not saying that my pain hurts less because of it.  It’s been hard.  Job’s been hard.  People’ve been hard.  And as usual, I've been less than stellar at making things better myself.  It’s just the times for me. 

And I have to say, that because of it my fingers have been slower to flip through the word of God.  Haven’t even wanted to say His name out loud much.

It isn’t that I’m angry.  If anything I am disturbed by how calm I’ve been, how easily I’ve turned over.  No.  It’s fear.  There’s a caution inside me when I start reaching for the Bible, a catch in my mouth for words of praise towards Him.  I’m just so tired of being pummeled that I’m downright scared to shake the hornet’s nest anymore.  I can hear inside me being whispered, “Just keep it to your self.  You can love God.  Just hold it inside you.  The Gospel is great, but let other people share it.  Take a breath.  Focus on getting by.  Don’t put your soul at hazard any longer.”

Each passing day has seen pieces of me flake off out of necessity.  Shed that optimism in order to cope with the disappointment.  Slough off that hope.  It just leads to more pain. 

The whole thing has just about shut me up.  There doesn’t feel to be a whole lot left of me in there.  But… there are some things, some good things, no, great things, things too good, that keep rattling the cage that seems to surround my heart.  They shout inside me, “Wake up!  Fight!” 

So fight I must, for I cannot bear to disappear any further.  Hope must be and grow.  And, my passion to share the gospel will not be curtailed.  Stopping telling people about God?  Might as well die.  What’s the point otherwise?  That’d be like never saying I love you to those you love ever again, and that just isn’t going to happen.  

I'm going to double up and believe it'll be okay, that there is a purpose to this mess.  After all, I was warned by God himself.  Shame on me for ever thinking it was going to be anything other than hard.  God didn't let the cup pass from His own son, Jesus.  Why would I think he'd pass this cup, an infinitely smaller one, from me?

Strength may not be there.  Right now it’s mostly bark, but I’m swinging.  I’m swinging for hope, for a life that’s more than just okay.  This weight need not crush me, nor will it… in Jesus’ name.  I invite anyone who feels moved to do so please pray for me in this, that my heart would not fail, that dreams would not cease, that disappointment would not overrun me.  Like the Psalmist, may I press on in faith, trust, and hope.  I will pray the same for you.

Psalm 84:8-12

8 O LORD God of hosts, hear my prayer; give ear, O God of Jacob! Selah

9 Behold our shield, O God; look on the face of your anointed!

10 For a day in your courts is better than a thousand elsewhere. I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God than dwell in the tents of wickedness.

11 For the LORD God is a sun and shield; the LORD bestows favor and honor. No good thing does he withhold from those who walk uprightly.

12 O LORD of hosts, blessed is the one who trusts in you!