I Want to Be Left Behind
(Page 3 of 4)
May - June 2008
by Brenda Peterson, from Orion
George pulled his laptop out of his backpack.
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He often brings his home office to the beach while he’s seal sitting. We can tap into dozens of wireless halos shimmering unseen around nearby apartments. “I’m sending you this link,” he said. “It’s the home page for the non-Raptured.”
Squinting in the morning marine light, I could barely make out the computer screen, which read, “Inheriting from the Raptured.” A very official last will and testament followed: “Contact your saintly friends now. Offer to let them use the convenient form below to keep their fiscal assets from slipping into the hands of Satan’s One World Government agents.”
“But, George,” I protested, “this site isn’t serious.”
“It doesn’t matter if it’s joking,” he said. “It will still work.”
The will had blank signature lines marked “Infidel Witness #1” and “Infidel Witness #2.” “Well, I suppose,” I suggested with a smile, “that we can ask some of the other seal sitters to witness this for us.”
But George was serious. My neighbor was signing me up to inherit his worldly possessions—his world.
I was strangely touched.
With a pang I realized that while some end-timers might not have the stamina and constancy for compassion, many, like George and my family, feel real concern for the infidel loved ones they will abandon. And watching George’s expectant face, I was reminded that his spiritual stewardship, like that of some other evangelicals, includes other species as well as the natural world.
George has helped me bury the pups who don’t survive. We bury them deep under beach sand so their bodies nourish the whole ecosystem. Once we had the sorrowful task of burying a pup as the mother swam in the surf, cooing to her newborn to come back to her.
“Oh, look,” George exclaimed in a whisper. “He’s up!”
Our pup intently scanned the waves for his mother and the beach for predators. For the first time, he fixed his full attention on us. Through the binoculars, I could see that his breathing had steadied and he was rolling over on his side into a more relaxed position. As he lifted his front flipper up to scratch his whiskers, his huge eyes held mine with an unblinking gaze at once wild and familiar.
George and I tracked the seal pup’s every move—and now there were many. Repeatedly, he lifted his head and hind flippers to scan the waves and beach, then scratched, scooted, rolled over, and then gave a long, leisurely yawn.
“George,” I suggested, “why don’t you take a break? Go join your family for supper.”
“Anytime now,” George murmured, “the mother will return. That’s my favorite part.”
And then I understood something about my neighbor and about myself. All of us know what it feels like to wait for someone to call, to finally come home, to recognize our love, to reunite with those of us who long for something more, something greater than ourselves. Maybe it will come in the night, in that twinkling of an eye. Maybe it will save us from a lonely beach.