It’s the season of your ninth birthday, but I don’t need a calendar to tell me that. Everything points to it—the wind, the angle of the sun, my allergies, my fragility, the way I can’t seem to engage in anything… everything cries out that you were born now. I know it in my bones.
You know what? It is still sad. Even my present and future hope doesn’t stop me from recalling and realizing that there are still deep pockets of sadness. These aren’t the kind of pockets that are waiting to be expelled by the light of exposure. They are just waiting to be visited and acknowledged—these deep, quiet, intimidating places where I have space to remember who I am and Whom I need.
Emptiness is full of potential.
If I am met in that space, no matter how slightly, an effervescence—an energy—comes of that emptiness meeting eternal life, reminding me that the only liability of sadness is its denial, and its toxins come only from its suppression. Everything else about it is divine.
Coming to my end, and up to the banks of my vast nothingness affirms that I am forever broken and forever must be saved, which is not so bad in light of the good news promised to people like me who are too poor to bring about their own fulfillment.
After all, the Gospel is only good news to those who know they need it.
What are you doing today?