The hectic pace is probably a good thing. Both head and heart want to veer in another direction. Can't do me any good, though. This road is indeed the shortest route to heaven; there's no sense doubting that. And I don't even know the next turn, let alone where and how it might end up. It's peace of a sort, and probably more trustworthy than the illusion of having everything settled and in place. That's not my way, not in this season.
Reading a Seattle Weekly article on suicide. It makes me sad and perplexed. In my former career, I had lots of experience with suicide: ideation, gestures, threats, and even dealing with completion. I understand the mechanics; I've trained and coached on the signs and responses more times than I can count. But I've never gotten it. My history has something to do with that, I know. You don't punch your own ticket. Life is too precious, too sacred, too fragile. And I don't want to understand any more than I do, except for the simple sake of being sure I'm present with others, of the hope that I won't be part of leaving anyone so emotionally starved and desperate that they slip into the illogical flip-flop of enacting a permanent solution to painful but temporary problems.
Life is beautiful, as ironic as it seems for me to say that now. It is, no matter what I may go through or lose. In fact, it may be all the more beautiful because of that. There is glory ahead. Indeed, there is glory in this, though I may strain to see it and still be blind except by faith.
There's more trust required of me than I've ever been prepared to give, and that's no accident. The fact that I know what's been lost and what's at risk is proof positive that I've been blessed in the past and that my heart knows hope for the future. My Father will only surpass my hopes, dissipating them like morning fog in the rays of sunrise if they are too pale, small, or weak.