Lost Memories : Redemption, Hope, and Forgiveness

As a new mom, new to having a baby, new to the trials of nursing, new to the insane changes in my body, Lost gave me a welcome mental vacation as I struggled with a crying infant ("Is she eating enough?" "I changed her...why is she still crying?" "Am I a failure?") and learning how to lean on my husband and surrogate family because I could not do everything by myself, even if I thought I could.

In a way, Lost began to mirror my own life, the way that good literature jumps off the pages and becomes immensely personal. I sympathized with John Locke's never-ending quest to be special, to have a purpose on this forbidden rock of a planet. Like Sayid Jarrah, Kate Austen, and Sawyer, my decisions today are heavily influenced by a dark, painful past. Like Charlie, my passion for music runs through my soul, and I loved Hugo's mother, her constant banter reminding me of my dear abuela.

Watching Jack Shepherd's immense guilt for his father's failures, flaws, and eventual demise echoed strongly with my own struggles over my parent's choices. I wanted to cry out, "No, Jack, it is not your fault that your father buried himself in his emotional tomb," at the same time wishing I could use some mythological electromagnetic pulse to cry out a similar message to my teenage self less than two decades ago. "No, it is not your fault. Your parents made their own choices. No, it is not your fault, and your self-worth cannot, and should not, be gauged by another."

As my daughter crawled and cried snot-faced, attempting to stand during the final hours of Lost, I couldn't help remembering the hours, countless hours, sitting on the couch, nursing this tiny little being, and covering her ears when the evil smoke monster made too much noise. I don't let her watch Dora or Noggin or any other number of pointless cartoons, but she and I enjoyed Lost together.

When Claire Littleton gave birth to Aaron the first time, and then again last night, I smiled at my daughter and said, "Mommy did that for you, too." (Albeit, I was in the comfort of the local hospital and not in the jungle or backstage at a concert.) Claire's struggles were my struggles those first few months. Granted, I was not a lost soul on the island, but many times I felt incredibly lost as a new mother, and when Charlie brought Claire a jar of peanut butter, I couldn't help but smile when my husband came through the door with the very necessary pint of ice cream.

I admit I could never understand, or empathize, with Ben's character. Somehow, ruthlessness has never been an inherent part of my nature, and unlike many other Lost fans, I was not thrilled with Juliet's union with Sawyer. She did not deserve him, I thought. Sad to say, I have never been a big fan of redemption, which is ironic, since the entire purpose of Lost involved the quest for redemption of Dantesque proportions. I am a woman of faith, yet, like Jack, I am a woman of fact. Faith has always been a struggle for me and most likely always will. Redemption requires deep faith, which is perhaps why Jack Shepherd (and perhaps Benjamin Linus, too) was the last one to join the others in the Light. Redemption requires the deep-seated belief that you are worth saving and that Someone out there feels that you are worth saving, too.

My husband and I watched the final episode of Lost with our now crawling little girl. She provided some comic relief when exhaustion (I had been up since 3am) started to kick in after two hours of pre-series finale television hoopla (and now I remember why I love Hulu so much). Lost is now gone, at until fan outcry requires a follow-up flash diagonal movie to fill in all the unanswered questions. ("Why polar bears?!?!?")

In some ways, I feel that more than an allegory for the life hereafter, Lost could serve as a lesson in the life here-and-now. We don't need to wait until after our last breath to say "I forgive you. I love you." We don't need a smoke monster to devour our nemesis before we can just forgive and forget. We don't need to wait until a plane crash of Oceanic 815 proportions to make a difference to give ourselves and other's hope.

In the end, we are all abandoned on our own private islands. Some are physical - like John Locke's paralysis or Charlie's drug addiction. Some are emotional - like Kate Austen's inherent flight mechanism or Sawyer's tough exterior. Some of us never make it off the island, instead rotting in the filth of our own inadequacies and pride willingly, while others not only escape, but help others along the way.

If Lost has taught us anything at all, it is this mantra, which should be embedded within the lost of soul of every person: "Live together or die alone." Choose redemption. Choose forgiveness. Choose love. Choose the Light.