Destiny. Fate. Divine intervention. Free will. Karma.
People have come up with a lot of ways to rationalize why things happen the way that they do. Perhaps you feel that you can have an effect on the outcome of an event, in the shaping of your life. Or maybe you feel that your life has already been shaped for you, aligned with fate or prophesy, and your job is simply to live that life. Another thought is that someone or something else (God, gods, angels, spirits) has a hand in your future, and you are powerless against it.
Basically, it boils down to believing that you have a hand on the reins and must take action and responsibility in the shaping of your life, or believing that someone else is in control and your goal is to trust that things will work out the way they are supposed to (hopefully in the best way possible) if only you can resist the urge to “help” by initiating action.
I believe in a mix of karma (you reap what you sow) and the concept of the people who loved you in life looking out for you in death (whether death equals “heaven,” a “fabric of time” or something else entirely, I can’t say).
I haven’t lost a lot of close family members in my lifetime. Pets, yes. But people, no. My grandpa struggled with regressive dementia in the years leading to his death, and when he was most himself I was too young to remember. My memory of him consists of snippets: Grandpa playing the organ and letting my sister and I “play” with him. Grandpa’s smile as he came up from the basement with ice cream for dessert, or opened a box of Whitman’s assorted chocolates and offered us one two pieces with a wink. Grandpa’s response to the question, “How are you?” (A bewildered look, then “I don’t know, she hasn’t told me yet!” while gesturing at my Grandma.)
I assume that once the initial trauma of losing a close family member passes, you only think about those individuals at certain moments: holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, etc. However, I choose to believe that Grandpa is out there, somewhere, and that he’s looking out for me. He’s got his faculties back and knows that I’m Jennifer and not Alice. I like to think that perhaps he occassionally runs into my old pets and doles out ear scratches and belly rubs. He loves me, and wants me to succeed. And every once in a while, he asserts himself in my life in some small way to protect me or make me smile.
In September 2009, the peace lily that I acquired from his funeral made me think of him. I love you, Grandpa.
Some days, I get stuck behind a slow car with no ability to pass, and right before my frustration causes me to start looking for a way around we pass by a cop while doing a speed that doesn’t get you pulled over. Thanks, Grandpa.
Whenever I get to work and I’m simply dreading it, but there’s an open parking space right up front I smile. Thank you, Grandpa.
Things don’t always go your way in a specific moment, but they always seem to work out in the end. Thinking that on certain days, in small, meaningful ways, my Grandfather is thinking of me, watching over me and helping me to succeed (even if success is only measured by the pleasure of a smile) is extremely comforting. So while I believe that my own actions today shape the future events in my life, I also believe that the people you love and are loved by in life look out for you after they’ve passed. And one day, I’ll be able to negotiate an open parking space for someone I love.
[...] Grandpa now resides at Cheltenham Veterans Cemetery. The last time we visited him, the grass hadn’t grown in yet and there was a big crevasse in the earth at the end of his plot. I remember looking up at Mom and Dad and saying, “Grandpa got out!” This time, Grandpa was surrounded by a well-manicured, leaf-free lawn and the same biting December wind that used our hair as tooth floss and made our red noses run. We placed a boxwood, juniper and pine cone wreath on Grandpa’s headstone — Grandma chose the juniper wreath for her late husband because he was color-blind, and therefore wouldn’t have been able to see the red holly berries against the greenery. Good call, Grandma, and Merry Christmas, Grandpa! [...]