The truth of Christ may never be fully revealed to me. My rational mind may never fully comprehend what He truly is, but the irrational part of it completely holds firm to His life, purpose, and willingness to completely deny Himself and take up a cross. It is something that pulls at my heart every moment.
I tear myself apart because of my lack of faith and inability to let go of the past, to forgive myself, and allow Providence to take Its course with me. My ego gets in the way. My mind holds onto the idea that I matter. I’m gradually learning this isn’t true. It’s being the least – learning to serve others in the capacity of the gifts graciously given me by the Author of all things. I am not the continent, yet the continent is incomplete without me. I may choose to be an island, but the sea still connects me to the land and sky.
My errant faith may doubt the immortality of my soul, but the center of my being tells me I am already embedded in the mind of God; that whether the arc of my being extends forever or ends at the grave, I am already part of the beauty of His totality. My name may not be written in the annals of time, but it holds a place in the book of lives. It is a page of the History of God. My death does not tear it from His autobiography but merely translates it into another language to be read anew by those who go after me.
We each have a page, not a chapter. What we write in this life is not up to us alone – we must share with each other in penning the words. When the bell of Time tolls at the end of all things, Providence will put back together the tome of which all of us are part. We will speak the same language, that of love, and read with clarity the original design. Having a full understanding of the pain and suffering we endured – knowing it was part of the writing of the Book. In whatever shelf of God’s Library it is placed, it is a testament to His love and grace, and I will always be grateful the Logos, which is Christ enabled that to be.
[my apologies for so irreverently re-interpreting John Donne’s Meditation XVII]