Kirt's gone so he'll never know and there is no better companion who can hold despair and hope together without diluting either (there are probably better options for warming the bed though).
The Brothers Karamazov all held me tight as I wrestled with the nature of evil, violence, and faith.
The quotes that sustained me were from the lips of Father Zosima:
If the wickedness of people arouses indignation and insurmountable grief in you, to the point that you desire to revenge yourself upon the wicked, fear that feeling most of all
And
Fathers and teachers, I ask myself: "What is hell?" And I answer thus: "The suffering of being no longer able to love."
I've just let those thoughts roll around in my mind as I find myself grieving and wanting to spew out blame and easy answers.
I feel reactive and raw so I spent a good chunk of today in silence. It is my protest to the violence of our words and culture.
And then I did a Jesus thing. I fail doing this a lot so I feel like I need to mark it when it happens.
I gave thanks for the little things I could hold onto in the midst of the chaos.
The part of communion that tends to stick out to me is "In the night in which he was betrayed, our Lord Jesus took bread and gave thanks. . . " The night his friend betrays him with a kiss, Jesus freaking gives thanks for a loaf of bread.
In the midst of wanting someone to pay for the betrayal of humanity, I tried to lose myself in thankfulness for the little things around me.
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| The elusiveness of the cranberry |
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| My faithful companion |
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| The grace of changing seasons |
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| The beauty of icicles and waterfalls |
I need to be quiet.
I need to give thanks even in the midst of such craziness.
Because I don't want my righteous indignation to turn into my hell.
*Fyodor Dostoevsky (1821-1881) was a Russian novelist who wrestled with the meaning of existence and the role of suffering and God. He was also much greater than Tolstoy could ever dream of being.
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