The Pointlessness of it All

Dearest Rachel –

It hasn’t been the easiest night for sleeping, and I’m not entirely sure why. Maybe it’s because I allowed myself to fall asleep in the chair yet again – I’ve really got to stop doing that – but considering how short a period of time it was that I slept there, it doesn’t seem to be the reason.

Indeed, in keeping with my inability to understand why, the dreams I had this morning before waking up (and yes, I know they were in the morning, because it took me until four to stop turning around in bed like like a pig on a spit; I checked the time) had to do with J.K.Rowling and her alleged latest book. I say ‘alleged’ because of course, this was a dream, and the story doesn’t exist, and even if certain details do resemble her post-Hogwarts material (and why should they, since she would be trying to put Harry Potter behind her, in order to spread her wings as it as a writer? Or conversely, why bother writing anymore at all, as she has all the money in the world?) this was created out of whole cloth by my unconscious mind.

And indeed, the plot seemed to be a fairly pedestrian one; no longer an auror for the Ministry of Magic, a grownup, divorced and bitter Harry is a fairly standard-issue private detective. I won’t say that it proved that I dream in black and white, like certain people claim, but had it been in black-and-white, it would’ve made sense, being thoroughly film noir in atmosphere. To be fairly honest, the true mystery here was why any muggle crime or whatever would require the services of one Harry Potter, given his abilities and specialties.

Unfortunately, after some time following him around (and yes, it was like that – I was not reading the book, but rather walking alongside the characters themselves, not quite interacting with them as much as observing them, but actually within the world), that particular mystery was never solved. Nor, for that matter, was any actual mystery or crime dealt with; it was clear that the true story was determining how Harry got into this position in the first place.

But for whatever reason, my mind realized that it was not up to par with Rowling’s skill, and copped out by letting me wake up, leaving me marveling at the pointlessness of it all.

And that’s life for you; not everything in it has a clear point. Anton Checkov insisted that, if there was a gun on a table in a play when the curtain rose, it needed to be fired by the end of the third act, but real life isn’t so neat and tidy. Sometimes, a service revolver squirreled away in the cut-out portion of a book by your dad isn’t discovered by you until years after he’s gone, by then so old a rusted that only a proper and thorough cleaning (which we know nothing about) can bring it back to any useful condition.

We assume God has a plan for our lives; He at least has a plan for humanity. But it isn’t as if He follows our narrative rules. Just as He is not slow as we would consider slowness, so what makes sense to Him does not and will not make sense to us. We are but a pixel – or at best, a handful of pixels – in the grand picture that is history, and viewing the entire picture is beyond our ability.

And so we have questions, questions that will never be answered until we cross over to where you are. Even then, you may not have all the answers yet, because “no one knows the day or hour” when He will return; I would assume that includes you.

All of which means that things will continue to seem pointless to us there’s not that much we can do about it except trust that He has something in mind that we simply don’t – or won’t – understand. That’s what faith is all about, isn’t it?

That’s all I have for now, honey. Keep us in your thoughts, and wish us luck; we’re going to need it.

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I am Rachel's husband. Was. I'm still trying to deal with it. I probably always will be.

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