We must not allow the clock and the calendar to blind us to the fact that each moment of life is a miracle and mystery. -H. G. Wells (1866 – 1946)
I found a scratch piece of paper with random notes written after a counseling session dated a year ago from today. Three small words were neatly written in declaration, “I hate life.”
Glossy-eyed I stared at the paper. Could this be my handwriting? Has a year really passed? Even though my body remembers the feelings attached to what I just read, it questions the sadder part of living. This world feels lavished with undisclosed secrets of hidden hurts and confidential stories of brokenness. We don’t share ourselves with others because that might make us vulnerable. If vulnerable, we run the risk of being rejected. And we don’t trust that in severe loss we have anyone else with whom to confide. Maybe that is why I wrote the note to just myself.
It is a lonely place to be stuck in hate. This is the world where I wanted to detest as boldly as possible the injustice that had fallen upon me because on most days I believed it to be more than I could bear. I hated hearing that God would never do this to me; give me more than I could handle. I hated hearing, "You are stronger than you know". I hated being strong.
Here’s the fascinating part. I live. I still live. I have life. I care about my life. I like my life. I have a good life. A large part of this goodness came from loving and being loved by a very good man. Another part came from accepting his love in the package of time it was given. Maybe shorter than I anticipated, yet still received. In the passing of a year, I know that I honor him best by promoting life. I am a witness to the fact that love transcends and love ultimately heals. By appreciating, enjoying and respecting the fragile, fleeting, passing, non-guaranteed motion of life, I see God mixing mystery with miracle.
I am living. Each moment I am living. Mysteriously living. Miraculously accepting. Abundantly living life.
