Brokenness

 “I will die in a broken place." 

Before the words left my mouth, I had no idea they had been in my head.

I would have sworn death has not been omnipresent for me. 

 

Yes, hundreds of thousands of my fellow citizens have died as a result of Covid 19.

Yes, a family acquaintance of many decades lost his struggle against the vicissitudes of aging this week.

 But death for me?
Well, apparently, denial has been alive and well.

As I sat with this unwelcome, unasked for message, I found myself becoming tearful at the extent of its truth.

A place which provided me with decades of strength and peace has been revealed as being starkly and terribly flawed, perhaps fatally so; its members exhibiting behavior I abhor, proving themselves to be petty and untrustworthy.

A country I no longer recognize as my own. Even having recognized long ago the flawed, exclusionary principles upon which our country was founded, it has been seen by millions of people over the centuries as the best of what human community could be; especially by those yearning to share the freedoms we enjoy. The reality that nearly half of our population would not only deny those same freedoms to people not like them but take pleasure in inflicting levels of cruelty is nearly unfathomable to me; actions and beliefs which would have been abhorrent just years ago.

A family in which relationships are fraying and fragile, some now strained beyond the breaking point, leaving some loved ones in pain and isolation with others of us looking on in worry and despair at our inability to heal the breech.

None of these conditions will be resolved by the time I die.

Frankly, I’m not sure why I thought there would be a ‘coming together’ at the end; the disparate pieces of brokenness re-assembled into a mosaic that was not only recognizable but beautiful.

Hope springs eternal, I guess; that hope has died as well.

I will die in a broken place.