God of hidden things -
unseen art,
unheard notes,
unfelt touch.
God of fear and hope
and weary, worried hearts,
hear my questions and cries.
The world is heavy now,
and the light arcs
through a glass so darkly.
My soul wanders,
weighted and alone.
Lift me!
Help me rise
and see,
help me rise
And hear,
help me rise
And feel,
so that hope conquers fear,
so that my weary, worried heart opens and pours forth love
like water,
like wine.
Comfort me,
that I may comfort those
who suffer and sigh.
See me,
that my eyes are open
to the world around me.
Lift me,
that we all may rise.
Showing posts with label healing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label healing. Show all posts
Friday, March 13, 2020
Sunday, March 31, 2019
To Rise, a poem of healing
Let me rest this body
that has known pain,
yet still it slips into numbness.
Let me rise,
Your right hand to guide me
and place healing on my lips,
tasting of sweetness and sky.
Oh, let me rise!
I want to soothe this caged-wing soul,
loose feathered and desperate,
let go the moments that slip through,
withering and dull,
so that I can no longer feel
the glory of You,
though its shadow
rests upon me like a kiss.
I want to fly with the larks
who rise in exaltation.
They know Your secret name
and sing it, each one, an ascension
into the vastness of sky and wind,
a psalm,
a song,
a glory.
Oh! Let me rise,
so that my heart rejoices,
so that my being exults,
my body rests, secure
But let me rise and be whole.
Based upon Psalm 16
that has known pain,
yet still it slips into numbness.
Let me rise,
Your right hand to guide me
and place healing on my lips,
tasting of sweetness and sky.
Oh, let me rise!
I want to soothe this caged-wing soul,
loose feathered and desperate,
let go the moments that slip through,
withering and dull,
so that I can no longer feel
the glory of You,
though its shadow
rests upon me like a kiss.
I want to fly with the larks
who rise in exaltation.
They know Your secret name
and sing it, each one, an ascension
into the vastness of sky and wind,
a psalm,
a song,
a glory.
Oh! Let me rise,
so that my heart rejoices,
so that my being exults,
my body rests, secure
But let me rise and be whole.
Based upon Psalm 16
Tuesday, January 17, 2017
A Cry in the Wilderness
Author's note:
I originally posted this essay in January, 2012. A day after I began to write this, my friend’s husband lost his battle with cancer. Today is his yahrzeit - the anniversary of his death. It has been four years.
My apologies that the first line is no longer strictly true. Every other word remains unchanged and painfully true. His memory will be a blessing, his life was a prayer. His family will grieve and find comfort in their wilderness. Together they will find healing and learn to be whole again. And let us say: Amen.
I originally posted this essay in January, 2012. A day after I began to write this, my friend’s husband lost his battle with cancer. Today is his yahrzeit - the anniversary of his death. It has been four years.
My apologies that the first line is no longer strictly true. Every other word remains unchanged and painfully true. His memory will be a blessing, his life was a prayer. His family will grieve and find comfort in their wilderness. Together they will find healing and learn to be whole again. And let us say: Amen.
My friend's husband is dying. His death is imminent, a matter of days at best.
From the time he was diagnosed, they've had kids to raise, a house to run, meals to cook, carpools to drive. They've helped with homework and changed diapers and created a patchwork quilt made of comfort and stitched with hope. They've experienced great kindness and felt the soul-sucking aloneness of despair. Their family has grown by a glorious one. They've lived their lives, cursed their private hell, leaned on friends and been surrounded by love. They have seen their children grow and grieve, and have been helpless in the face of that grief.
It has been less than a year.
Not enough time. Never enough time to love and hope and grow and be, to live the life that suddenly seems too crowded with everything that makes up a life.
Not enough, but surely more than enough time to curse at God, raise holy hell. Enough time, enough bewilderment to demand to know just where the hell God is in all of this.
"Fuck you, God," we cry out into the wilderness of our pain. Who, in the face of such cruel and capricious reality has not railed against it? We are taught the laws of cause and effect from the time we can begin to comprehend the magnitude of this seemingly immutable law. It is a cosmic law, this if/then equation, a calculus of horrible consequences.
I know that place, that cursing, angry, defiant and terrified place. I have wept and wondered at the why of this despair. I have demanded answers from a silent God. I am good - mostly. And kind - mostly. I follow the rules and color inside the lines - mostly. Where’s the reward for my (mostly) decent and very human life? Why am I being punished? Was I not good enough? Did my life not measure up?
Answer, dammit. Tell me. Nothing? Silence, still? Well then, God: fuck you. Go to hell.
And there, in the darkness of my despair and pain, my grieving, wanting, painful and honest prayer: Fuck you, God. I am convinced that this, too, can be the healing grace of God. Blessing and curse. I have been blessed; I have been cursed. It depended less upon God and more upon my perspective. I believe that God needs to hear our raw, unvarnished anguish. I believe that God needs to hear our pure and unadulterated joy. I believe they are one and the same thing.
It is not what we pray that matters. It is, ever and always, that we pray.
How could we not? Underneath our cursing, do we not find the unspoken prayer do not forsake me, God; do not abandon me to my pain! The Psalmist had it right: we cry out to God and we are healed. He didn't say what we cried, or how. He didn't tell us "God only hears the pretty words. Speak only of love and praise. That is all that God will hear." No, it's pretty clear: we find healing because we cry out in our anger and our fear.
Blessing and curse. God does not fuck with us. We are neither abandoned nor forgotten nor ignored. Neither does God bestow wishes: we do not get parking places or jobs, nor do we win games or wars as a result of our prayers. What we get, simply, is grace. What we get is strength and courage to face what life has placed in front of us in that moment. My faith will not guarantee that I will never know fear again, or that only good things will happen. My faith, my prayer, my continued conversation with God allows me to put one foot in front of the other, and know that I will be carried through.
And God. Where is God in all of this? God is there, on the sidelines, waiting, with infinite patience, infinite compassion, for me to remember to cry out. God waits, to give me grace, to turn my mourning into dancing. God waits to dance with me.
For Alyce, my friend: may your mourning turn to dancing; may you dance soon with God.
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
Thanksgiving 2013: Unbroken enough
My refrigerator is broken. A year ago, I reported on its state of disrepair. And now, well, it's still kinda broken. I called the repair guy way back when, who came out, fiddled around for a minute or ten, turned the temperature dial inside a notch or two and charged me a bazillion dollars.
I swear I had fiddled with that dial all on my own. Apparently, I have no patience and the refrigerator does not respond instantaneously. And now, it's (apparently) still not entirely repaired. These days, it's runnning a little too cold. Sometimes, the spinach devolops a few ice crystals and the strawberries are a tiny bit frozen. I will say, everything keeps a little lomger, which is good.
All that said, I am afraid to fiddle with the stupid (read: malevolent and capricious) dial again. I am not quite sure that my refrigerator will not stick out its metaphorical tongue at me and give up the ghost. So, I put up with a mostly unbroken refrigerator and let the vinaigrette breathe a bit before dressing my salad.
Mostly unbroken, just like, well-- me.
Of good God. Did I just write that? Oh lord; I do believe I did.
*waits a minute, one eye shut, the other squinting upward, ready for the bolt of lightening from above*
*waits another minute, ready for the earth to open up and swallow me whole*
*breathes again*
*relaxes*
*stands up straight*
Yup. Me. Mostly unbroken.
Who'd'a thunk it?
It feels as if I have spent most of life feeling broken. Mostly broken. Shattered at times. Damaged and disconnected and less than. I have been haunted by demons and the ghosts in my head, their voices whispering lies and howling contempt.
I have believed every single one of them.
I spent a fair amount of time trying to drown them out. I hid inside a bottle for a couple of decades, and, even in the midst of my drinking, when that didn't work (because it never worked, not once) I grasped other straws of self destriction. Pick one. Any one. It didn't matter. I'd use anything I could find, any easy, path-of-least resistance way that would shut those voices up, lock them away. Fix me. Make me whole.
It never worked. Ever. All it did was feed those demons, who tore at me ceaselessly, who broke me and battered me and roared in their triumph.
I am grateful beyond belief for my sobriety.
I spent way too much time listening for those seductive whispers, straining to hear the pale voices of brokenness and damage. Even sober. Even sober, I was so used to being broken, had learned the lesson of their lies all too well. It was so much easier to believe in my brokenness.
But I was released! I was freed from that tiny universe of one, a locked box prison that kept out light and hope. Suddenly, I could move-- leap and twirl and dance. And there was you, every single one of you, who taught me how to live a day at a time (an hour, a breath, a heartbeat at a time).
There was life, full and vibrant and messy and painful, joyous and boring and profound. And love; God, there was love! And hope. After a lifetime of numbness, there was hope at last.
Still, even then, sober and learning and feeling after an eternity of numbness and ice, still I carried my brokenness with me, and I listened for the voices only I could hear. It was getting harder to do, though. The strain was getting wearisome; the shattered and broken bits of me that I clung to were becoming unbearably heavy. I longed to put them all down. Mostly. In theory. I am stubborn and crave the comfort I find in the familiar. But I could try, maybe. I could trust-- that I could be made whole, even a little bit at a time. A day, an hour, a breath, a heartbeat. I could believe, maybe just enough, that there was hope and grace, even for me.
Life is messy beyond belief, and full. It holds everything-- absolutely everything. I am humbled by its bounties, graced by its blessings. It is not all good, mind you, not all sunshine and roses. There is death and sadness, loss, disappointment. It is, after all, life.
And maybe, just maybe, not all at once, but little by little, I will lay my brokenness down. I will let those pieces fall by the wayside, slipping through my fingers and I will not feel their loss like a sharp absence. Perhaps I will let them lay where they fall, and I will walk on, lighter. Less broken by one (and then another and another), so that one day, one glorious day, filled to overflowing with gratitude and blessings, on that unimaginable day, I would realize, in the fullness of life--
I am, mostly, unbroken. I am forever, grateful.
Merry Thanksgiving to all. May we all find healing and grace to lay down our own bits of brokeness. Blessings of light and love, enough to fill the world. Thank you, God, for the gift of wonder and joy, and the miracle of hope.
I swear I had fiddled with that dial all on my own. Apparently, I have no patience and the refrigerator does not respond instantaneously. And now, it's (apparently) still not entirely repaired. These days, it's runnning a little too cold. Sometimes, the spinach devolops a few ice crystals and the strawberries are a tiny bit frozen. I will say, everything keeps a little lomger, which is good.
All that said, I am afraid to fiddle with the stupid (read: malevolent and capricious) dial again. I am not quite sure that my refrigerator will not stick out its metaphorical tongue at me and give up the ghost. So, I put up with a mostly unbroken refrigerator and let the vinaigrette breathe a bit before dressing my salad.
Mostly unbroken, just like, well-- me.
Of good God. Did I just write that? Oh lord; I do believe I did.
*waits a minute, one eye shut, the other squinting upward, ready for the bolt of lightening from above*
*waits another minute, ready for the earth to open up and swallow me whole*
*breathes again*
*relaxes*
*stands up straight*
Yup. Me. Mostly unbroken.
Who'd'a thunk it?
It feels as if I have spent most of life feeling broken. Mostly broken. Shattered at times. Damaged and disconnected and less than. I have been haunted by demons and the ghosts in my head, their voices whispering lies and howling contempt.
I have believed every single one of them.
I spent a fair amount of time trying to drown them out. I hid inside a bottle for a couple of decades, and, even in the midst of my drinking, when that didn't work (because it never worked, not once) I grasped other straws of self destriction. Pick one. Any one. It didn't matter. I'd use anything I could find, any easy, path-of-least resistance way that would shut those voices up, lock them away. Fix me. Make me whole.
It never worked. Ever. All it did was feed those demons, who tore at me ceaselessly, who broke me and battered me and roared in their triumph.
I am grateful beyond belief for my sobriety.
I spent way too much time listening for those seductive whispers, straining to hear the pale voices of brokenness and damage. Even sober. Even sober, I was so used to being broken, had learned the lesson of their lies all too well. It was so much easier to believe in my brokenness.
But I was released! I was freed from that tiny universe of one, a locked box prison that kept out light and hope. Suddenly, I could move-- leap and twirl and dance. And there was you, every single one of you, who taught me how to live a day at a time (an hour, a breath, a heartbeat at a time).
There was life, full and vibrant and messy and painful, joyous and boring and profound. And love; God, there was love! And hope. After a lifetime of numbness, there was hope at last.
Still, even then, sober and learning and feeling after an eternity of numbness and ice, still I carried my brokenness with me, and I listened for the voices only I could hear. It was getting harder to do, though. The strain was getting wearisome; the shattered and broken bits of me that I clung to were becoming unbearably heavy. I longed to put them all down. Mostly. In theory. I am stubborn and crave the comfort I find in the familiar. But I could try, maybe. I could trust-- that I could be made whole, even a little bit at a time. A day, an hour, a breath, a heartbeat. I could believe, maybe just enough, that there was hope and grace, even for me.
Life is messy beyond belief, and full. It holds everything-- absolutely everything. I am humbled by its bounties, graced by its blessings. It is not all good, mind you, not all sunshine and roses. There is death and sadness, loss, disappointment. It is, after all, life.
And maybe, just maybe, not all at once, but little by little, I will lay my brokenness down. I will let those pieces fall by the wayside, slipping through my fingers and I will not feel their loss like a sharp absence. Perhaps I will let them lay where they fall, and I will walk on, lighter. Less broken by one (and then another and another), so that one day, one glorious day, filled to overflowing with gratitude and blessings, on that unimaginable day, I would realize, in the fullness of life--
I am, mostly, unbroken. I am forever, grateful.
Merry Thanksgiving to all. May we all find healing and grace to lay down our own bits of brokeness. Blessings of light and love, enough to fill the world. Thank you, God, for the gift of wonder and joy, and the miracle of hope.
Sunday, September 1, 2013
26 Elul 5773: Hope
I knew I would love The John Laroquette show from the very first episode: a cynical, sarcastic, self-deprecating, trying-to-get/stay-sober alcoholic who had bottomed out after losing everything and was desperately trying to piece his life back together without getting too attached to it, without allowing himself to care too much about it.
Not that I identified in any way to this character setting. Not that I appreciated the gallows humor a little too well. At all. Actually, what drew me in, what made me exhale in easy recognition was a sign that hung on the wall of John's office:
This is a dark ride.
Five words that captured my life, framed everything, in perfect context. You must know (by now) that one of my mottoes is "Why use ten words when a hundred will do?" But there, hanging on the (fake) wall of the (fake) bus station's (fake) night manager's (fake) office was this five-word sign. A sign of absolute and immutable truth: this is a dark ride.
Angels could have sung in twenty-severn part harmony, while demons and dybbuks danced a tarantella and God tossed confetti on the lot of them. My Truth, writ in fake Gothic font on signboard and hung in all its pixellated glory, on the walls of a set for a TV show.
Life before hope. Life, when hope was a dirty little secret, an impotent exercise in futility and failure. Pandora would have been better served had she shut the box lid on Hope's tiny gossamer fairy wings when she had the chance.
And, okay, maybe not life without hope. More life with a hope that was misplaced and passive. I hoped for all the wrong things-- that you would save me, that God would heal me, that life would magically work in my favor. That I would be happy. It's not that these were bad hopes. It's how I went about hoping.
What I did was exactly nothing. I did not ask, nor pray, nor act, nor choose. I sent my hope out into the universe (my tiny universe of one, that shut out light and air and the voice of God), whispered and weightless, and I waited. I waited to be struck whole. I waited to be made happy. I waited to be saved from myself. With every whispered prayer for hope I released, I got sadder and angrier and more self-righteously justified in my pain and loneliness.
What I didn't understand-- what took me halfway to forever to learn-- was that hope is an action. I am responsible and obligated to participate in my redemption. You will never save me. You can offer me strength and shine a light on my path-- you can even lend me some hope. But you will not save me. You will not make me happy. You don't have that power (of course, it also means you cannot make me sad, or angry). Those are all inside jobs.
God will not strike me whole, heal by brokenness, relieve me of my despair. I won't even get into the circular and didactic argument of "Well, God could if S/He wanted..." That's not the point, not in my belief set. I can dance in the palm of God's hand, and find respite and release (and I have). My faith and my prayers change me, give me grace to walk forward in my life, face whatever is in front of me-- the good stuff and the bad.
Pray to God, but row towards shore. Hope is an action. I have to hope with my feet. If I merely watch from the sidelines of my life, waiting for hope to kick in, life will be an eternally dark ride. Hope, as an action, as a prayer, lifts me and fills me and allows me not just to leap, but to soar.
Sunday, January 6, 2013
An Early Winter Tale (with apologies to Isaac Luria)
In these days when dark lingers well into the day, and steals away precious minutes of every afternoon, I often wonder about the nature of light. Me (being me), I leap from light to God to redemption and healing in the blink of an eye-- quicker than thought, more natural than my heartbeat: there it is (there I am)
Merry new year to all.
Chapter One: in which Heaven and Earth-- and Light-- are created.
1. In the beginning, there was God.
2. God was (is) (will always be) endless and forever. There was no place that was not God. In fact, there was no Place. No Something or Nothing or Anywhere. Not even an Anything as finite as a Somewhere. There was just God.
3. And because there was no Place, there was no space into which God could bring forth Creation. And creating was God's greatest and truest desire. So into the Infinity that was God, into that Divine Everything, God gathered in Her (His) breath, so that there could be an Emptiness into which there could be created a Somethingness.
4. And in that breath, into that Divine contraction, God spoke, and the World came to be. There was Heaven, there was Earth, and into this roiling, riotous, joyous and searing Act, into this rending of the Endlessness into Somethingness, there was Light.
5. And God declared that it was Good.
6. Now understand: this was like no Light you have ever seen. It was neither sunlight nor starlight (they would not be created for several more Days). It was the Light of Creation itself.
7. This Light was pure and luminous and filled with Everything that God thought to speak into being. God didn't miss a thing (as if God could!), The Light of God blazed forth and illuminated the All, growing brighter and brighter, creating shadows where once there was only God.
8. "What a shame," God thought, "that My Light should overshadow all My other creations."
9. So God thought to capture His (Her) (or no Pronoun at all) (remember that God is an Endlessness, defying division)-- so God thought to capture the Light, and contain it.
Chapter Two: In which the Light is Contained.
1. God crafted ten Vessels, making them from Earth and Air and Fire and Water.
2. (Because God is okay with inconsistency, and even though some of these elements hadn't quite been created yet (and weren't on the docket for several more Days), God didn't let that get in the way of a good story).
3. Into these Vessels God placed the Light of Creation, that shone with the holiness of God - that illumined the Everything of Creation and Eternity with God's own radiance, and which contained all the sacredness and transcendence that God could gather, but it was an awful lot of holiness to occupy the same Place at the same time as Anything or Everything all at once.
4. The Light stretched itself up and out, seeking a path in which to flow and leap and dance. The Vessels, though, were static, being made of Earth and Air and Fire and Water. They could not hold that holy radiance, though they tried - oh! they tried to stretch with the Light, and move with it, and so contain it.
5. Instead of moving with the fluid grace of that radiant Light, those Vessels (crafted by God, made beautiful and holy by God), those Vessels shattered.
Chapter Three: in which the Light, along with the Vessels, is scattered.
1. Then the shards of those shattered Vessels were scattered into the Everywhere. The Light, once contained, rose and leaped and was free again.
2. It soared and danced and sang a psalm, a joyous hymn to God. "Hallelujah!" cried the Light.
3. The Light grew brighter, illuminating Heaven and Earth and All that was in between, brighter and faster and more luminous--
4. More holy, infusing the darkness with Light--
5. More radiant, wrapping around the Everything it touched--
6. Over and under, everywhere and and all at once, holy, holy, holy! In the space of a heartbeat (though hearts were long from being Created), in a moment of Endlessness (though there were Beginnings), the Light, with each turn and tumble and leap, left behind a Spark, nestled in the subtle curve and rough-edges in each of those myriad and broken pieces.
7. And so the Vessels, though they could not contain that holy and sacred Light, could instead be sheltered by It. Could instead offer shelter to It.
8. A multitude of Broken. An Infinity of Holy, bound together, scattered to the Everywhere of Heaven and Earth.
Chapter Four: In which Things are Revealed
1. God watched that shimmering cascade, reminding Him (Her) (God) of celestial fireflies on a clear summer night (for while there were finally fireflies, Summer was still a long way off) (But God can remember forward, so it was Good). God saw, but was sad.
2. Creation, by its very nature, is an Act of separation. It is a Breaking-- glorious and breathtaking in its wondrousness to be sure-- but a Breaking nonetheless. Creation makes a space where once there was none, separates the Not into the Is. Creation has the power to break vessels and scatter Light.
3. So if God's greatest Desire is to Create, God's greatest yearning is to Complete and bring to Wholeness (because God is, ever and always, ok with inconsistency). God watched that glorious, electric, magnificent display, and decided to Fix it.
4. Now God could not un-Create: what was brought into being, what now Was, could never be Not (not anymore).
5, Just as God breathed in to make a Space for Creation, so now God exhaled, in a great and gentle rush of breath. As with the Light, God's breath danced and leaped and rushed over the All, and those shards, those broken pieces made of Earth and Air and Fire and Water danced with God's breath, and they flowed and shifted through the Everything.
6. But they were not yet repaired.
Chapter 5: In which a Path is Made Clear, and a Purpose made certain
1. Into each piece of Broken that lay shimmering before Her (Him) (God), into that infinite field of possibility, God breathed a Name, a Soul, a Heart.
2. And with that singular, miraculous breath, God declared (into the Was and the Is and the Yet to Be): "What I broke, in My desire to Create, let My creations, in My yearning for wholeness, be charged with its repair."
3. And into that glorious, wondrous swirling cascade, God sang out: "Heal the World." And God knew (because God is smart like that) that it would be Good.
4. And so it is, and so it shall ever be: each of us-- every Heart, every Soul, we each have a piece of the Broken that is ours, to find, to heal, to bring together with all the other infinite pieces of Broken. Some infinitely small, some excruciatingly large, waiting to be found, aching to be healed. Yearning, as God yearns, to be made Whole again.
5. And so let us say, "Amen."
Merry new year to all.
Chapter One: in which Heaven and Earth-- and Light-- are created.
1. In the beginning, there was God.
2. God was (is) (will always be) endless and forever. There was no place that was not God. In fact, there was no Place. No Something or Nothing or Anywhere. Not even an Anything as finite as a Somewhere. There was just God.
3. And because there was no Place, there was no space into which God could bring forth Creation. And creating was God's greatest and truest desire. So into the Infinity that was God, into that Divine Everything, God gathered in Her (His) breath, so that there could be an Emptiness into which there could be created a Somethingness.
4. And in that breath, into that Divine contraction, God spoke, and the World came to be. There was Heaven, there was Earth, and into this roiling, riotous, joyous and searing Act, into this rending of the Endlessness into Somethingness, there was Light.
5. And God declared that it was Good.
6. Now understand: this was like no Light you have ever seen. It was neither sunlight nor starlight (they would not be created for several more Days). It was the Light of Creation itself.
7. This Light was pure and luminous and filled with Everything that God thought to speak into being. God didn't miss a thing (as if God could!), The Light of God blazed forth and illuminated the All, growing brighter and brighter, creating shadows where once there was only God.
8. "What a shame," God thought, "that My Light should overshadow all My other creations."
9. So God thought to capture His (Her) (or no Pronoun at all) (remember that God is an Endlessness, defying division)-- so God thought to capture the Light, and contain it.
Chapter Two: In which the Light is Contained.
1. God crafted ten Vessels, making them from Earth and Air and Fire and Water.
2. (Because God is okay with inconsistency, and even though some of these elements hadn't quite been created yet (and weren't on the docket for several more Days), God didn't let that get in the way of a good story).
3. Into these Vessels God placed the Light of Creation, that shone with the holiness of God - that illumined the Everything of Creation and Eternity with God's own radiance, and which contained all the sacredness and transcendence that God could gather, but it was an awful lot of holiness to occupy the same Place at the same time as Anything or Everything all at once.
4. The Light stretched itself up and out, seeking a path in which to flow and leap and dance. The Vessels, though, were static, being made of Earth and Air and Fire and Water. They could not hold that holy radiance, though they tried - oh! they tried to stretch with the Light, and move with it, and so contain it.
5. Instead of moving with the fluid grace of that radiant Light, those Vessels (crafted by God, made beautiful and holy by God), those Vessels shattered.
Chapter Three: in which the Light, along with the Vessels, is scattered.
1. Then the shards of those shattered Vessels were scattered into the Everywhere. The Light, once contained, rose and leaped and was free again.
2. It soared and danced and sang a psalm, a joyous hymn to God. "Hallelujah!" cried the Light.
3. The Light grew brighter, illuminating Heaven and Earth and All that was in between, brighter and faster and more luminous--
4. More holy, infusing the darkness with Light--
5. More radiant, wrapping around the Everything it touched--
6. Over and under, everywhere and and all at once, holy, holy, holy! In the space of a heartbeat (though hearts were long from being Created), in a moment of Endlessness (though there were Beginnings), the Light, with each turn and tumble and leap, left behind a Spark, nestled in the subtle curve and rough-edges in each of those myriad and broken pieces.
7. And so the Vessels, though they could not contain that holy and sacred Light, could instead be sheltered by It. Could instead offer shelter to It.
8. A multitude of Broken. An Infinity of Holy, bound together, scattered to the Everywhere of Heaven and Earth.
Chapter Four: In which Things are Revealed
1. God watched that shimmering cascade, reminding Him (Her) (God) of celestial fireflies on a clear summer night (for while there were finally fireflies, Summer was still a long way off) (But God can remember forward, so it was Good). God saw, but was sad.
2. Creation, by its very nature, is an Act of separation. It is a Breaking-- glorious and breathtaking in its wondrousness to be sure-- but a Breaking nonetheless. Creation makes a space where once there was none, separates the Not into the Is. Creation has the power to break vessels and scatter Light.
3. So if God's greatest Desire is to Create, God's greatest yearning is to Complete and bring to Wholeness (because God is, ever and always, ok with inconsistency). God watched that glorious, electric, magnificent display, and decided to Fix it.
4. Now God could not un-Create: what was brought into being, what now Was, could never be Not (not anymore).
5, Just as God breathed in to make a Space for Creation, so now God exhaled, in a great and gentle rush of breath. As with the Light, God's breath danced and leaped and rushed over the All, and those shards, those broken pieces made of Earth and Air and Fire and Water danced with God's breath, and they flowed and shifted through the Everything.
6. But they were not yet repaired.
Chapter 5: In which a Path is Made Clear, and a Purpose made certain
1. Into each piece of Broken that lay shimmering before Her (Him) (God), into that infinite field of possibility, God breathed a Name, a Soul, a Heart.
2. And with that singular, miraculous breath, God declared (into the Was and the Is and the Yet to Be): "What I broke, in My desire to Create, let My creations, in My yearning for wholeness, be charged with its repair."
3. And into that glorious, wondrous swirling cascade, God sang out: "Heal the World." And God knew (because God is smart like that) that it would be Good.
4. And so it is, and so it shall ever be: each of us-- every Heart, every Soul, we each have a piece of the Broken that is ours, to find, to heal, to bring together with all the other infinite pieces of Broken. Some infinitely small, some excruciatingly large, waiting to be found, aching to be healed. Yearning, as God yearns, to be made Whole again.
5. And so let us say, "Amen."
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