Wednesday, February 11, 2015

In the most tragic sense.

Tonight, I was on the phone
with my dad.

He said that
the older he gets,
the less his career
matters to him.

All that matters
is Mom
and me
and my siblings.

I tried to ask him
how I could make him so happy.

I'm just a person.
I've never done anything
noble for him.
I haven't added to his honor
through my accomplishments
or my virtue
or my wealth.
I've used up his money,
I've cried and screamed,
I've taken up time
in his prayers.

He couldn't explain it
in a way I could accept.
And I knew I couldn't understand
because I'm really just a child,
and I won't know
until I have my own child.

Without a way to understand,
I could only feel angry.
So angry that someone loved me
so much
even though 
I didn't deserve it.
.
.
.
Sometimes it's tempting to think
that you can draw a box around yourself.
There's a little door
through which you let in love.
And you think
you can keep out
the rest of the things
that you don't accept.

Sometimes the thing
that you don't accept
is someone loving you
in a way that you're not
ready to understand.
.
.
.
Almost two years ago,
I heard this quote by C.S. Lewis.
It has stayed with me
and meant something to me
since then.

I think I maybe
actually
understand it
a little bit
for the first time.

[God] has paid us
the intolerable compliment
of loving us
in the deepest,
most tragic,
most inexorable sense.

From "The Problem of Pain"

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