It was 16 hours ago that I told Facebook I would blog, and now I'm 11 minutes from midnight--thank God for the time change and the time zone.
But there's something about this that I love: using the last scrape of the day--after breakfasts and church services, after games and movies and phone calls with grieving friends, after snuggling into blankets with a pit bull, that the last but of my day goes to finding the right words for each part, fitting them into sentences, finding them homes in paragraph tenements.
Such small revelations today, but peppered through like yeast in dough:
- that even a couple years ago, I would have sat in this morning's service as an outsider, casting down judgment, shaking my head in mock compassion. And instead I found myself latching onto the common grounds, the places where we meet--focusing on the joinings and not the cracks and gaps in between.
- that grief is a stage of love, another step in its dance, and while there is not enjoying grief it is not only a privilege but also a testament to the strength of a love. "Speak of your lost love in the present tense," the woman at the pulpit says, "because it is." And, similarly, where we have ceased to mourn? Where the vacancy is less noticeable each passim month? Equally indicative--it's not a sign of problematic grief, but only of a shallower love than others.
It is the end of the day. Time for rest, for that last stage before everything is made new again, and before the clock is reset on this challenge I have set for myself. Tick tock. Tick tock.