Death in a Small Town

And the left behind of the in-between

Being born and dying are part of life. It doesn’t matter who we know or how much money we have or how hard we work, everybody is born and everybody dies. Those are two things that never change.

It is the in-between living that we make our own. How much say do we actually have about the in-between? Well, that is a loaded question and we could go on and on for a lifetime about it. Philosophers have made a name for themselves, contemplating and pontificating on this very thing. I will spare you any preponderance of pompous delusional enlightenment regarding this. I am not going to gas on about the whole dealio.

The in-between is where we do all our living. We might not know it, but we are living. We could be a lucky surefooted one, who knows we have been put here for a specific purpose, plonked down in a certain family or town for reasons that are crystal clear to us. God forbid we spend our life in the horrifying alternative, existing in an in-between and never figuring out our reason for living. What if we lived our in-between as a tentative child at a new school, hesitant and frightened, letting others decide who we are? Every single day? I can think of nothing worse than going through life without a purpose, as a timid, behind the scenes, kind of NPC (non-player character) instead of living intentionally and boldly.

Imagine, if you will, the business of LIFE. This business requires our participation to achieve the intended outcome. Intended by who? A random amoeba in a giant universe? Your parents? Your teachers? Your bosses? The government? A priest? A pastor? What? Who? Maybe, just maybe, it might be bigger than any of them.

If our in-between is anything but authentic and shaped by its creator, well, that would just be a crying shame. What a waste of energy, resources, time, money and every other single thing that goes into creating our essence and our legacy.

If we have no meaningful connections in our life, then the impact of our existence on this planet will be minimal. Our one time journey will be spent floating aimlessly in a world that is not of our intentional making. Our happiness will be dependent upon outside influences instead of from within us. I choose NOT to address the greater issue, the fact that all of us were born into certain circumstances, families, environments etc. that make us all very different. But the fact remains that even if we all had the same circumstantial presence on this earth, we would still be different from one another. I have a brother and a sister with the same genetic makeup, but we are not the same. At all. And, we live differently and our in-betweens are nothing alike. So, I can only come to the conclusion that we choose to make ourselves who we are, by our choices in the here and now, and it shapes us. Every single day.

When one who lives in a large town or big city dies, the death is felt by those left behind who have been touched by the deceased. But, when one dies in a small town, the death is felt by everyone, whether they were close or not. The orbits of family and friends and business acquaintances are far closer than a passing blip on the radar of life. The widow and the children are taken in by the caring community and meal trains are started. Childcare or snow removal become a given and neighbors pitch in for as long as they are needed, because it is what we do. Death in a small town is more than a passing obituary in a newspaper. It is real and the loss is felt by everyone, from the EMT’s who were good friends of the dearly departed to the pastor who baptized the children or performed the marriage. Death in a small town is the post funeral potluck, when the entire town shows up to the VFW hall in commiseration and mourning with the family. And they stick around for the aftermath. For as long as it takes. Because it is constant loss. The town just doesn’t go home and turn on the TV and maybe remember the tragic funeral. The small town stays and picks up the pieces of the shattered lives every morning, every afternoon and every night. For as long as it takes. As long as it takes to heal, to grieve, to hire substitutes. Make no mistake, there is a long road ahead and there is no forgetting for a small town. Small towns are a special kind of magical place where the miracle of connection is always present. Being absent is not an option for a small town. If we don’t show up, then who will? We need each other. We are there for each other at the weddings of our children and we are there for each other at the death of grandparents and now, tragically we will be there for the death of a man in the prime of his life, cut short, suddenly and unexpected.

When the dead are old, it is a celebration of their life. The photos are many and stories are vast and span many decades. It is a celebration of a life well lived. Yes, there is great loss to the community, but it is something we all knew would happen sooner rather than later. The line of life was coming to an end in these people. Their in-between was grand. We were sorry to see them pass to the other side, but there was great comfort in knowing they were prepared and left a life that was well lived. The promise of meeting again on the other side can go a long way towards a peaceful acceptance of such earthly exits.

Any other kind of death is tragic. The terminally ill and the aged have an advantage, the advantage of knowing that death stalks their hallway at night. They are prepared. Sudden, unexpected death is something those left behind struggle to understand. We struggle to justify it. We struggle with God about the unfairness of it all. The in-between was not nearly long enough. It was cut short and we don’t understand the whys of WHY our loved one is gone with a poof, trading this life for the next with never a whisper of warning that they were leaving. We didn’t know that their in-between was over as we ate our dinner together for that last time, blissfully unaware. How does that end even happen, when the beginning of life starts with such a screaming announcement of our arrival? Yet, who could think that the moment we shake off everything that held who we were on this earth, it could be so silent? Stealthy? Ruthless? Unfair?

All that remains of their in-between are memories and those who remember. Those who resemble the departed through the miracle of children and the promise of generations to come. Wives, now widows. Husbands, now widowers. Parents, now childless. Why didn’t they let us know they were leaving? It wasn’t long enough. As we struggle through denial and expectation of their presence at any moment, the questions just will not go away. Their clothes lay carelessly discarded, dropped with the thought that tomorrow was another day. A day that never came for them. Death came instead. How is that part of a plan? There are no platitudes to console those left behind. It was a sudden and unexpected snatching of their loved one. Now all that is left is a shell. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Then, the cringing task of writing an obituary of someone taken in the prime of their life, the summing up of a life that was not yet over. How does one even cope?

One take-away could be that we should always be better in times of trial, so we can be there for those who need us. Be the best version of us and reach out to the severely bereaved and be a source of quiet, faithful strength.

We need to make our in-between count and connect to our Creator, that we may be a comforting presence to those in need. Solid, sure and faithful to the end. Even if our tomorrows are just today, we are still living our in-between and we need to be the rock solid pillar in a crumbling world.

~Dedicated to the people in my little town. You know who you are. You embody all the good in this world. Keep strong.♥♥~