Just waiting to see what we’ve been left here for. — Quote from “Train Dreams,” by Denis Johnson.
The literature of Denis Johnson often dwells in the quiet, rugged spaces of the American West, but in Train Dreams, he captures something bigger. There is a specific kind of gravity in the line: “I sometimes think I’m just waiting to see what we’ve been left here for.” It is a sentiment that resonates not with the young, who are busy “becoming,” but with those of us who are approaching “already been.”
In the novella, the protagonist Robert Grainier lives a life defined by staggering labor and even more staggering loss. After a fire takes his wife and daughter, he spends decades in the Idaho woods, a man left behind by the very world he helped build with his own hands. When the landscape of your life has been shaped by the erosion of loss and the peaks of past achievement, the horizon can begin to look like a conclusion. But as the park ranger suggests to Grainier from her high observation tower, perhaps the height of our years isn’t for looking back—it’s for watching what is coming.
To be “left” implies survival, and that term resonates loudly today as my dear friend Richard passed away this weekend. Like Grainier, who outlived his era and his family, we eventually find ourselves as the last sentinels of a certain time. We look around and see the empty chairs of friends, the quieted rooms of grown children, and the physical limitations of a body that once felt invincible. It is easy to mistake this stillness for obsolescence.
However, if we are “left here,” it is by design. In a spiritual sense, being left behind is not an oversight by the Creator; it is a commission. Grainier’s life was not a tragedy of survival, but a testament to endurance. We often measure our worth by our “doing”—our careers, our strength, our productivity. But God often shifts the metric in our later years to “being.” Sometimes we are left here simply to be the witnesses and the keepers of the story.
Like the ranger in her tower, the perspective of age allows us to see the “smoke” of trouble or the “light” of hope in others’ lives long before they see it themselves. We are left here to be the early warning system and the calm guidance for those still in the thick of the woods.
When an old friend calls and asks, “What have you been up to, Hubbell?” the response—“Just waiting to see what I’ve been left here for”—is more than a clever quip. It is an act of faith. It transforms “waiting” from a passive state into an active, holy anticipation. It says: My bags are packed, my heart is ready, but my eyes are still on the horizon because I haven’t been called home yet. Therefore, there must be one more person to encourage, one more prayer to offer, or one more beauty to witness.
God’s plan doesn’t have an expiration date. Moses, Caleb, and Anna all found that their most significant “seeing” happened when the world thought they were done. Even Grainier, in his final years, witnessed the arrival of a new world, standing as a bridge between the old wilderness and the coming age.
If you are still here, the map of your life is still being drawn. We aren’t just lingering in the foyer of eternity; we are stationed at the window. We are waiting with purpose, watching with grace, and ready to see exactly why we were chosen to remain for such a time as this.
Well, I’m so sorry for the loss of your friend Richard
Thank you Carol. Richard was a wonderful soul. W.
Oh Webb, that is so beautiful….you are such a wonderful friend, person, thinker, writer and have one of the biggest hearts I know. ❤️
Thank you!