There's a side-effect of the fear fetish that makes me want to eat kitten shishkabobs. It's the rampant use of these two words:
(Most often, one word holds the gilded mirror for the other.)
Randomness is scary. Scary like the news. So we declare that people who survive do so because they deserved to, or really really wanted to, you know, more than the other guy, who either gave up or didn't pray enough but is now, at least:
1) IN A BETTER PLACE
2) ENJOYING THE LOW-STAKES THRILL OF ANGEL WINGS
3) PLAYING SHUFFLEBOARD WITH ELVIS AND/OR JESUS, BUT HOPEFULLY JESUS, BECAUSE JESUS SUCKS AT SHUFFLEBOARD, AND ELVIS IS AN ANGRY LOSER.
We feign control because we’re terrified of the inevitability of losing it. And so we take and assign credit for survival, wholeness, recovery. Sometimes we feel entitled to credit because we worship one way or another. Or because we feel special.
For the sake of humility, do this. Do not presume we influence our fates in a way that implies the failure of others to influence theirs. Let's respect change, either way, and do our best to walk towards it and accompany one another through it with dignity.
Say it with me. I submit to humanity's ultimate lack of self-directedness.
And there. See? It's okay. Your shoulders unclench a little. Which is counter-intuitive, I know. You are facing the great randomness. It's a bit of a chill. But it's not about you.