Bypassing the psychedelic theology of “Lost,” what is it about that last scene, when everyone gathered in the church, young again and free of old tension while the violins breathe that sense of eternity over the slow motion film? Our hero is dying, we know it’s sappy, but it still rings true.

Heavy and icky, a sense of doom presses down on me. At night, it jerks me from my sleep with scenes from what-if scenarios raising my pulse as efficiently as any horror move while endless do-do lists scroll like credits in the background.

I know there are people for whom longing is a stranger. This is not for them. This is for those of us whose hearts are hungry for more than anyone can give, who have tried to be content with less, and who are simultaneously exhausted and defiant in the pursuit of – of what?

Do you have any idea how much tenderness you evoke? As you grapple with loneliness, friendships, and the conflict between permanence and transience, the fresh glow of childhood trust still peers through your eyes, even as maturity’s firmness is settling into your face.

I just turned 47. After more than two decades in America, I still haven’t grasped why it’s considered impolite to ask a woman her age. I am so relieved not to be 17! The world was spinning then, as an Alice-in -Wonderland concoction of disconnected experiments, and I didn’t know where to find solid ground.

In retrospect, it was impatience and discontentment mixed with illusions of an easy income that drove us into the business that became our nightmare. Then a young pastor of a fragile church plant and new father, my man sought the solution to our struggle for sufficient time and money for both, in what appeared to have worked for others.