It hurts sometimes. When an eight year old boy’s down to weeks to live. When there’s death all around, and there’s no happy ending to be found. The seminary students can preach, “there is a time, there is a place”, can speak of their god’s love and grace, But where does that put me? What can I give? There’s no heaven above, no redeeming dove. ”They’ll be in a better place”? Well, there’s no pain in dead space. There’s just nothing, a void, an all-consuming terror that no one wants to face. Your kid is dying, mother’s dying; I won’t hurt you more. Say there’s nothing out there, your belief is a lie, so when you’re dying—that’s it, the end is to die? No reunion in the hereafter, just a few moments to cling to that are never enough and can never heal your soul. I can’t make you feel better; all I have is me. I’ve got a hug and the words “I’m sorry”. And I am, I just wish there was more I could do, but—damn.
Death is the end, and it’s hard, and it’s lonely, and I would change that if I could.
Which is not to say anything other than to express the sadness and helplessness I feel when I have friends and family who are facing a tremendous loss. It’s unpolished. I know that.