In the midst of dark unfeeling ground something warm and good springs up. Is it love? Is it desire? Perhaps simply the longing to love... That is not a foreign feeling, not foreign at all. Yet it is new in this territory, in this blase land, What will I do with it? Will I crush it because the Buddhist ideal of desirelessness is easier than the Christian reality of desire? No, I cannot kill it. It is too precious, too true and genuine, too rich and full of life. Yet that is the danger, the promise of a life much richer, the promise of a joy much fuller, the promise of things that can be ripped away, of things that have been ripped away.
I will not water it just yet... I can't bring myself to do so. But let the rain fall to water that which needs to grow, to bring life to that which scares me. Let that good, warm plant lap up the nutrients I did not provide, in the ground I could not create. Let my capacity to love grow. Not too quickly, lest it be contorted and twisted by my dark desires. Or lest that pure spring overwhelm me and in vanity I seek to ebb its flow. But let it grow, steadily and true to You. Amen.
