I’ve lost my keys for what feels like every day for a month except it’s not my keys I’ve lost.

I don’t know what your pattern in dealing with grief is, but my seemingly unavoidable pattern is to delay it until the last possible moment. It is hard for me to accept that things are gone. My theology feeds this thought in its claim that no person is definitely gone if they confess Christ. Absence in theory is temporary.

Humanity does not do well with accepting the permanence of death, and the leap that we cease to exist seems to run contrary to the hope instilled in us by the Spirit and breath of God. How could God’s breath be anything less than eternal?

But the nature of missing things does not suggest that things evaporate or lose their mass or matter. Though, I don’t know how the concept of life as vapor jives with the thought of object permanence, things don’t cease to exist when they are not seen or heard.

But if things or people did cease to exist wouldn’t we just adapt to life through the lens that nothing lasts unless it is present? Would that spare us or cause us more pain? Is it more painful to accept each time someone leaves or dies that they might never come back?

But that is not how life is. When we lose, we still wish we had or had won. We still want who we want to be here. We would rather have what we have been looking for than lose it for good or even for a little while. Because when all we are left with is memory, it can feel like our memories are taunting us as reminders of what we had but have no longer. They exist as if to say, “good luck going on without.”

Then we are left with the choice to forget or leave behind or move on. We are left to give up clinging to the past, and in a sense, it feels like we are asked to give up hope for the future. We become confronted with the reality that this person is not there in quite the same capacity or potentially any capacity for what we still hope to do or achieve or find encouragement for along the way. Everything becomes a matter of faith or fiction or fairy tale. Am I carried by the memory of the one lost or some mystical coexisting presence and intercessor?

And what of the other disappearances? What about the one who leaves not life itself but just your or my life. They exit from you and you alone. What about that person, who very much alive decides, “I want little or nothing to do with you? How do we navigate that rejection or hatred?” Because if we carry that, what we carry could be catastrophic at most and confining at least.

The finality of death or seeming finality is not fooled by the question of “how can I fix this?” I simply cannot. The relationship has seen its end. They are gone. Most or maybe all regrets have no help.

But the lack of finality of relational abandonment, neglect, or disconnection is a much different challenge. There is more forgiveness required due to the risk of continual hurt, the risk of unanswered questions that still beg an answer, the deception and misperception of peoples opinions and thoughts. All these and the seeming fruitlessness of trying to restore a relationship that lacks mutual desire can be wraught with distress. Even more, when the fruitless attempts don’t seem to be grounded in any tangible, rational reason, we can be tempted to fight for the familiar.

But love holds loosely. I don’t know if that is truth, but it seems true. My favorite blogger said it was true a decade ago, and it has felt true. In other words, all any of us can really do in any of our relationships is to let go, not with the thought that we or the person we hold will fall off a cliff or into a deep cold ocean after our ship has wrecked on an inceberg, but to let go with both our feet on solid ground and hope that whether this person is standing across from us or next to us that they will choose to stay when we let go.

And if they don’t, then it is their loss. And that at the end of the day, maybe that person was not who you thought they were, or maybe that person or persons was not worthy of your space, and maybe they aren’t as familiar or necessary as you thought. And we will accept, with some measure of difficulty, in some strange, cruel or even unimaginable way, that their disappearance at least now, is for the best.

James Passaro has been blogging for the better part of a deacade around themes pertaining to Christian theology, love and loss, coming of age, coming to death, poetry, vocational identity or lack there of. He still belongs to Jesus, still steady in pursuit of a meaningful calling, a desire to be of use to the Church, still finding ways to genuinely love, still faithful to His Lord, still willing to listen to your story. He still thanks you for reading.

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