I watched a movie the other night called “Hereafter”, directed by Clint Eastwood.
“Hereafter” didn’t get much buzz. I didn’t even know it was in theaters. But, I saw the trailer on another Netflix movie I’d ordered, and it was intensely intriguing.
The movie begins with a French woman taking a stroll through a marketplace to buy gifts for her boyfriend’s children. Most people will recognize the scene before she walks down the road as the hotel where the devastating tsunami in Thailand
The tsunami is re-enacted with terrifying clarity through CGI, and the woman is drowned.
She comes back to life, rescued by some men who perform CPR on her.
But during her experience with death, she “crosses over” to the hereafter long enough for it to change her views on life.
The movie slows down after the initial intensity of the tsunami scene.
It changes dramatically into a more character-driven, thoughtful story. That was fine with me. I didn’t feel frustrated with the change, so I paid attention.
It intersects the lives of three people.
The French woman, Marie, is a journalist who goes back to her job after the drowning and tries to find a way to cope with her experience.
Then there is a young English boy named Marcus whose extroverted twin is tragically killed, and he can’t find a way to live after his brother’s death.
But the story really begins with George, a reluctant psychic, who tries desperately to live in anonymity after he realizes that living with death is no life at all.
My assumption about the movie was I’d find out what someone else believed about the afterlife.
(I’m sure I’m not the only one). And I have my own beliefs about that, so I was prepared to be deeply skeptical.
But I came away with an entirely different take on the story itself.
I didn’t think it was about death, or the afterlife.
It was about communication.
To be more exact, it’s about connecting with people we love…or want to love.
This becomes apparent in a heart-breaking scene between George and a young lady he meets in his cooking class. She is beautiful, sweet, and very available. You can almost feel his need to connect with her.
But when she discovers he’s psychic, she foolishly presses him to do a reading for her.
And this is where we find out why George sees his gift as a curse.
Against his better judgment he agrees.
Sadly, the first real connection he makes with the girl of his dreams is through her dead father, and he finds out something about her past which makes it impossible for the girl to connect with George.
And as the movie progresses, we see how fine the line is between connection and complete exposure.
All through the movie, my throat closed whenever I saw the desperation of people trying to connect with their dead loved ones. They felt so alone. I understand that.
And I understood why George had such a hard time.
He is not God and he doesn’t want to be.
No one can fill that need the way God can.
It is too overwhelming. It drains our poor human hearts of all feeling.
When death breaks that connection…that communication, the hole is too huge.
I suppose that is what grief is for.
And everyone has their own time and way of dealing with it.
When I became a believer eighteen years ago, I made a connection with God…or rather God made the connection with me. I met Him when I believed He became human and experienced death.
Why would God experience death? Why would He need to? He’s God.
And somewhere in my lost and broken spirit, He answered that question in a way I could understand.
He did it to rescue me.
And I needed rescuing.
He did it to connect with me.
And I needed that connection.
It was like spiritual CPR from God…it brought me back to life and changed my view of everything.
I think that’s why I related to Marie in the movie.
When she came back to life, she had to adjust her thinking in a world that, for her, looked different.
Some of the people in her life rejected her views, but it opened her eyes to other things.
Important things. It helped her make a real connection…with love.
And I too, have walked in the valley of the shadow of death.
I knew Jesus walked with me through that time, but the changes thereafter were difficult.
Surviving the pancreatitis wasn’t the hard part.
The hard part was surviving it while living with an alcoholic.
I don’t pretend anymore to understand what drove him to leave me to die.
Neither of us was aware at the time how sick I was. But my pain should have moved him to some compassion...and it just didn't. He refused to call an ambulance or take me to the emergency room. I finally had to do that.
It was not the first time he had issues with illness or hospitals. And it certainly wasn't the last.
It was not the first time he had issues with illness or hospitals. And it certainly wasn't the last.
My co-dependency excused his behaviors and the pain meds took care of the rest.
Thereafter, I had moments when my mind would take me back to that hospital room, and I felt a guilty wish that things should have turned out…differently.
I longed to know what the real connection felt like.
But, I survived.
And there were six reasons for me to understand why. And a seventh a little later.
One of the things I remember most about my hospitalization was the constant questions from the medical staff on whether I drank alcohol. I found out later, pancreatitis is a common disease stemming from alcoholism.
They thought I was an alcoholic.
What could I say?
No. I just had my sixth baby. I was too…um, busy?
But my husband drinks. Maybe it was second-hand drinking?
Turns out…it was a long-neglected gall bladder.
It had been infected for years, through two pregnancies.
I still can’t imagine how it was missed.
I saw plenty of doctors during my pregnancies.
But I think I’ve mentioned before my awful timing.
I’ve come to my own conclusions about how closely related the physical is to the spiritual.
That is…I know why my gall bladder rebelled.
The gall bladder is responsible for making bile.
When it produces too much bile, gallstones are the result.
I swallowed too much bile in my marriage.
Bile is gross.
But, I also remember some good things from the hospitalization.
Really. That’s how I knew the Lord was there.
The doctor who operated to remove my gall bladder (after I had stabilized enough to go into surgery), was Hindu, I believe.
I was on heavy, heavy doses of morphine, so I babbled extensively about whatever was floating by on those drug clouds: the clearance sale I was missing at Linen’s and Things; the price of parmesan cheese; how dirty the toilets in my house would be when I went home.
Before the anesthesia shut me up, I remember talking about my two-month baby boy, about his red hair, his five brothers, and how even though I knew his oldest brother would take care of him, I still had to go home to make sure he didn’t put a Lego in his mouth.
In recovery, I found out this Hindu doctor was so astounded that I’d given birth to six boys, he repaired, at no extra cost, an umbilical hernia I’d had gotten from my third son.
You know…the wrestler.
But thanks to my doctor’s cultural proclivity towards male children, my belly button was an “innie” again.
(Not that “outies” aren’t adorable…my daughter has one. A hernia is anything but adorable)
Even in the midst of death…we are in irony.
Or something like that.
How can I go from death to belly buttons?
…I do it all the time.
In conclusion (and I think I’d better conclude this), I’m beginning to understand that being co-dependent is not a connection with another person.
It’s a gaping need that drove me to fix my marriage, fix my life, fix someone else’s life, fix the broken toys, fix the microwave, the lawn, the grody stuff in the tile grout. Fix it.
Some things can only be fixed by God.
And some things weren’t meant to be fixed.
At least not until the hereafter.
Let go and Let God, friends.
