No one was awake, the house was silent and cold. The mug of hot coffee warmed my hands but nothing else. For a few hours, both the house and myself were like a tomb. The dead among the living.
So I walked out and away from the dead house. I let myself be lead but still, I could not bring myself to go up those stone steps. And the bells didn’t ring so much as clank that morning. I turned away from the old church and leaned into my pain. What could have soothed me then, I do not know.
When people are difficult and hurtful and situations don’t work out as you had planned, I try to redirect myself. Try. I’m not always successful.
Because what could this moment teach me about Christ?
Could this ever bring me closer to God?
And how am I supposed to reflect that divine love to others when I feel broken?
What happened was wrong yet here I am under question. Brought low and humbled by the question of myself.
In questioning ourselves we should not be afraid. Merton once wrote to the effect that when we become the question, we also have in us Christ as the answer. Because we do not lack an answer. What we lack is compassion. Under it all, not just faith, should be compassion.
And I lacked in compassion when I finally chose to respond to the questions being asked.
What happened cannot be changed and the words I flung around, so carelessly, cannot be unsaid. He left for work and the memory lingered.
So I prayed for forgiveness.
I prayed for healing, calm, and peace.
That the bitterness and rejection not define us.
For strength to change. Hearts to be shaped more intentionally.
But I never asked why because I knew who the answer would be.