The End and The Means

Recent events, local and otherwise, have really shed light on how fragile life is. Here in Helena, we had five teenagers die a couple of weeks ago in an accident that could have been avoided very easily. Their end was quick and tragic. The means to the end of their lives? Poor decision making on many levels. Officers found drug paraphernalia in the vehicle. There was other evidence that alcohol was likely involved as well.

This evening I took the long way home though a cemetery just north of where we live. It's a great place to see birds and other animals. I was trying to get our youngest to sleep. One of the munchkins asked if we could slow down and read the names on the grave markers. Lots of different names. People born in the 1800s. Some of them died very young. Some died at a much older age. I thought about a crude family cemetery I saw in southeastern Kentucky on the side of a dirt road. In the tall grass there were 12 markers. Each marker had a name, the date of birth, and the age at which the individual had passed away. The birth date on each was engraved just after the word "BARNED"--with a backwards capital N. The youngest had been an infant, just days old. The oldest had been a teenager. All were from the same family. It was a very moving thing to see. At age 19, it did not mean nearly what it means to me now. To bury twelve children. What a heart-rending journey.

For the past two years or so I've noticed a chap who takes the same road to work that I take. I see him sometimes in the morning. Sometimes on the way home from work in the early evening. He drives an older Dodge pickup, and he is probably around 55 or so. I likely would not remember him aside from the fact that his behavior is, on its surface, so very puzzling. On his face, snaking their way from the back of his neck into his nostrils, are two clear plastic tubes that some folks use to help them breathe more efficiently. In his right hand, the steering wheel. In his left hand, a smoldering cigarette.

When I first noticed this fellow and his tubes and cigarette, I was amazed. I cast judgment. How ridiculous! I thought. What a moron. How could someone live in such a self-defeating way? And then I began thinking about all the ways I have done the exact same thing to myself. No, I've never tried a cigarette or canned oxygen or owned a Dodge pickup. But what about the times when I've been trying to live a decent, balanced life while not caring about being patient or loving or supportive? Could not the same thing be said about that? Could not someone say, "Look at Greg. He's supposedly got this great air all around him, but he's poisoning it by allowing this fault or that issue to taint it." Kind of like the guy who thinks he's doing X and Y correctly, but does not slow down enough to see that A and B are being neglected.

I don't know if this makes any sense or not. It's one of those things that I think I'm communicating clearly, but really am probably doing a very poor job of conveying.

What will be my end? Will I experience the proverbial untimely accident that could have been avoided? Will I set myself up for failure by taking in pure and poisoned air at the same time, thinking that the smoke really isn't that bad? I'm sure there are things I can improve on. Impurities I can get rid of. Some impatience I could ditch. A little improving here and there. Hopefully the means to my end will be a journey of improvement, and the end will be crossing the right finish line. Not just the one that's closest. But the right one.