Epitaph

I was reading an interview with Max Lucado, in which he quoted an epitaph that impressed upon him many years ago.

Sleeps, but rests not.
Loved, but was loved not.
Died as she lived, alone.

Among the myriad of possibilities, I wonder if she wrote that epitaph for herself in a moment of sorrow, or if a silent observer, documenting her sad existence, chose those words.

The world tends not to accomodate outliers very well: the socially awkward, the unpopular, the loud and rude, the quiet and withdrawn. Most of us damn ourselves with the decisions we make; the people we choose to be. And more often than not, in real life, the stories don't end the way they do in Disney films. The hunchback doesn't get the beautiful girl, the beast doesn't get the beauty, the prince doesn't arrive in time to wake the sleeping princess, Mulan doesn't save China (although, yes, that's a true story).

So I wonder. I wonder who the woman described in the epitaph was really like. I wonder who she is and how she lived. I wonder how she loved. I wonder if, like me, she was socially awkward. I wonder if she was a loner. I wonder if she had a nasty temper. I wonder if she's just like me - completely not in control as my life careens desperately and dangerously off the course I had prescribed.

Perhaps there is something to be said for a complete dependence on a higher Being. But, God, that would mean letting go!