It's strange: it seems that every day great icebergs of hatred and guilt and even sadness float down like soft white flags & disappear. Even a week or two ago, I could not imagine that my heart would be warmed, that I would believe God and want to know His mind, and -- most of all -- that I would count such events as a clear & true response rather than a vile phase. Still, my heart is not quiet. My body shakes me in impossible ways that I do not understand. My mind seems to be evaporating. And yet, I feel in a queer (in the archaic sense) way that some vector of grace has met me where I am (despite all the rumbling) and that at the last I will be carried home. But life, X, life! I want that also.
[In that old prayer]I am sure I did not know what I asked -- if this illness is a "wringing," then it is not what I wanted! But I feel like a silly giddy child, even in the worst suffering I've known (though so far it is little), because the great sheets of ice and stone and solitude are coming down. I do not feel alone!
Perhaps you will wince when reading this as I do while writing it -- confession rubs close. Plus a dual movement of confusion, both cognitive/compositional and inward-constitutional, scrapes into my hoped-for meaning. This has helped me, though, even as speaking this way is a wallowing and a wound.
No comments:
Post a Comment