By Jim Nichols

It is strange what we remember. They are just incidents (or thoughts) of the past that had little importance at the time, but they stuck in our mind. Sometimes we were the recipient of the incident or thought; other times we were the donor.

When I was a boy, I was fascinated by helium-filled balloons. It was part of my introduction to the various gases (oxygen, hydrogen, and others); I understood that they were real, yet invisible, items and that they came with different properties and capabilities. If I blew room air (mostly nitrogen) with my mouth into a balloon, it inflated. On the other hand, if I or someone else filled the balloon with helium, it not only inflated, but it rose; it went to the ceiling if I did not restrict it with a string tied onto it. This was like magic to me, a true joy for a boy.

I learned quickly, however, that the joy would be short because when I rose the next morning, the balloon, though still mostly inflated, was usually resting on the floor. Nothing I could do to it could restore its ability to fly to the ceiling.

This was a similar experience I had with goldfish. Growing up, I had many. I was adept at keeping their bowl and water clean by netting the fish, transferring them to another container temporarily, cleaning the bowl, and then replacing them with fresh water in their original container. I learned to sprinkle just the correct amount of flaky fish food on the water surface, and they would dart there, grab a morsel, and retreat downward, thanking me, I was sure. We even had an electric pump and a small cylindrical porous stone “bubbler” that aerated and mixed the water. The setup with the colorful fish was not only visually attractive but made an appealing humming and bubbling sound.

Eventually, however, the fish all died.

I learned that balloons go down and fish die; it was the beginning of other hard lessons.

In 1998 Judith Viorst published an important book titled Necessary Losses. Viorst wrote that there is an inevitability to life that includes successive losses. She urged us not to fear them but to expect them as a necessary and normal part of life. The author begins with the loss of our mother’s protection and continues through the loss of other loved ones by separation or death. Sprinkled in are painful changes, having to forsake dreams, and unmet expectations. At first glance, her thrust appears gloomy and unappealing, but she is doing us a favor by noting that we are all in this together—this is a universal quality of life. A quick glance in the mirror reminds us physically.

Since we share these expectations, it is helpful to talk about them together occasionally. May we?

An important practice time in necessary loss is when we get sick. Sickness slows things down. During a recent illness, my mind raced to small losses. Who will do these important things in life if I do not do them? I had to admit that someone else would do them or they would go undone; either way, it was ok. That is hard to admit. Sickness acts like a reality check.

A life-long friend made his living as a carpenter. He remodeled and built houses from scratch. Serious illness caused him to begin limiting his activity, finally resulting in him leaving the profession. When he told me that he had closed his shop and sold his tools, I could see the pain in his face and hear it in his voice. Despite that, he is aging gracefully and has a life including rewarding relationships with others and with God.

The reality is that our illness is a rehearsal of our passing from this life. As uncomfortable as it is, you and I need to practice letting things go. Speaking of such things during the first half of life seems unreasonable when you are there, but the second half of life shows us this reality clearly.

An image that helps me is that a sculpture is shaped by what is chiseled off; we are shaped by what we lose.

I hope it does not trivialize scripture by a personal paraphrase of John 16:33 as Jesus says: “Goldfish die and balloons go down, but be of good cheer, I have overcome the world.”

Jim Nichols is a retired Abilene Christian University biology professor and current hospital chaplain