Monday Moment - Messages of Peaceful Reassurance

In the last few years, we’ve had a “Community Reads” program which asks the question, “What if all Canandaigua (or Seattle or Denver or wherever) read the same book?” It’s been a wonderful thing.

A committee made up of school, library, and community folks select a book that’s appropriate for adults as well as high school students, and then promotes a variety of programs that encourage discussion about that book. When it’s possible, the author is invited to do programs for students at the high school and community college, and for the community at large. We’ve read books like The Sweet Hereafter, The Kite Runner, Peace Like a River, The Color of Water and more.

This year’s book is lovely and hopeful story called The Death and Life of Charlie St. Cloud by author Ben Sherwood that gives a particular view of the afterlife. Charlie and his younger brother are in a fatal auto accident. Charlie is revived but his brother Sam is not – and the rest of the story is about the choices Charlie makes to maintain a connection with his brother at the sacrifice of fully living his own life. Until a turning point comes that pushes both brothers to move on to their next phase.

My book group met last week to discuss this book, and it generated conversation about experiences that echoed Charlie’s connection with someone who had died – and every single one of us could report some occasion when we felt sure that someone from the other side was trying to give us a message. The messages were consistent – they were messages of hope, of reassurance, of love.

I found myself thinking about Charlie and Sam on Thursday when the news came out from my alma mater Northern Illinois University. I thought about Alice Sebold’s The Lovely Bones, another story about an afterlife. And I found myself thinking about the family and friends of the six young people whose lives were violently cut short. And then I couldn’t help but think of the thousands of lives cut short in Iraq and other troubled parts of the world. All those futures that will now not come to be. All the healing that needs doing before the people who had such hopes for those futures will be able to breathe a peaceful and contented breath.

My fervent hope for all who have lost someone – especially those who were lost so abruptly and with no sense that we can see – will be able to rely on the hope – eventually – of love that is never lost, of life that doesn’t end but transforms. I know just how hard hope can be in the face of grievous loss. And yet I remain hopeful that clear and unmistakable reassurance of peace and comfort can be given to those who need it most. It’s a lot to hope for, and it is what our planet needs.

May your week be hopeful.