When the fog of anguish blocks sensory contact of your feet with the floor of your bedroom, or the hallway leading out of your condo, or the snow covered sidewalk, and when you reach somewhere not remembering how you got there; when numbness replaces grief, and despair looks like the better side of hope, and relief is remote—like Andromeda; when the structures of "Health Services" make mannequins out of people, and referrals lead only to the next manqué appointment; when a regional ache overruns the boundaries and takes up residence in every cell, and when running through grass laughing is an irretrievable memory, and prayer has run dry—is it not reasonable to ask about God’s occupation, sleep habits, hobbies?
And yet, you cry out, and wait upon the absence, which you somehow knowingly feel will bring more light than weight. Why do you feel this? No one told you. It simply came—your hands bleeding, as you clung on to the sharp end of desire, a shard of hope.
And so it happens in the middle of your long involuntary call into the fog, that you dispel the Supreme Being God—that granting-or-denying-your-bidding-prayers God, and are opened up to the mystery beyond the nothing, or the mystery of the no-thing-God. And that long anguished why-forsaken solicitation—that heart’s dart propelled by Love—pierces the cloud of your mind, fusing mind and heart; and you recline into the other, the divine community, where presence resides; and, like this, you rest, even in the hurt, in hope re-ember-ed.