The bright blessing of loss

Even though I have sensed to a degree the uncomfortability some friends of mine must feel when reading this blog, I have needed to continue for a while now writing these posts. I’m grateful to the friends who have stopped here and been uncomfortable, for my sake, for the sake of my grieving. More valuable than glittering treasure are these friends. They do not gleam like knives. Yay.

I have been, perhaps, coming to terms with loss for about a year. In its fairly organic way, this losing has been my unrecognized, subconscious companion. I think I now understand better the exclamations of some people I have read.

Lord, will you at this time restore the kingdom to Israel? (It would be so much easier for me, Lord, if everyone saw things about you the way I see them. Now.) Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. (If you would have done things differently, Lord, I would not have had to grieve.)

At the same time I can relate better to these passages, perhaps my friends can, too. In some souls, pain has accompanied watching me make a turn toward what looks like rejection of the Messiah. Their fear is something that could be true. Delusion could be the path I have chosen.

I have thought, in considering this dynamic, this situation with my friends, that things might proceed the usual way for us. Presentations of arguments could stimulate dialog, a dialectic. We could gaze together at two possible understandings and work toward common assessments of what might be true. Even though we would still likely disagree, we could debate, even have some fun. The old Ptolemaic vs. Copernican viewpoints in lively discussion. It all might happen. These were my unspoken hopes.

But there’s no easy saunter toward a water-cooler discussion about this sort of happening. Even amongst the most friendly communities, the result of differing views of Jesus Christ is people with sword-hilts sticking out of them. Penetration to the depths occurs, despite everybody’s best intentions.

Only one other time have I grieved this way, thirty years ago. And, really, it was for the same reason, though the situation greatly differed. In my life, at that time, Light shone. The Light didn’t force itself on me, but when I cracked the window blind, there it was, and when I said all right, in it came. It divided and sundered and caused great grief in me, by the simple fact of its is-ness, its being, its illumination. I had nowhere to hide.

Yet amazingly, back then and (if I’m at all correct) now, the brilliance and uncompromisingness of the Light was gentle and kind. With illumination came the first steps toward true health, toward leaving a self-imposed exile. As if what I had done to bring exile had been to recognize some real aspects of unhealth in me, of a sort of cancer, and the exile, the closing off in darkness, had been a form of chemotherapy. The treatment a necessary thing, yet nearly as bad as the disease of ignorance, of not living prepared to awaken.

Even though some dear friends see things differently than I do, I am stepping forward today beyond my treatment. I’m knowing I am loved by these friends, though we can’t go into the dark together anymore. I’m grateful they are wishing the very best for me. I wish only goodness for them. I accept their need to travel their own distinct paths in the Light, in the ways they have been given to truly apprehend it.


Deb Colarossi said…
I am slowly stirring awake myself of late and am going to read these posts from the beginning again.
I know that I still tremble at how much I want to learn, need to learn, get to become and see and know.
Peace be with you my friend.
deanna rebekah said…
Aw, Deb, you are very gracious. It helps to know another is in a similar space. I apologize for words in these posts that came from my general frustration (whether you've recognize them or not). Now the process in me feels able to continue with more freedom, less anger, though all is still in movement. I'm truly sorry for things I dashed off that might offend regarding your family's tender corner of faith. Thank you for your forgiveness and humility.