When I was in the womb, I was diagnosed with terminal life, an illness that would render me completely alive and in control of my wellness and destruction. At the time of my birth, my parents did all they could to reverse the signs of damage that had already left me corrupt. In the years that followed, as I grew unrelentingly and at times uncontrollable, I caused the infection (illness) to spread rapidly to all parts of my being, especially my mind, body, and spirit. I was completely unaware at the time of my self-discovery how every decision I made was preventing my healing.
By the time I was in my teens, my disease, which I came to discover as sin, had taken hold of my heart and left me unabashedly helpless. I did all I could to combat this sin with doses of thoughtless prayers and obligated church sightings. Nothing seemed to work. I went the "natural route," leaving behind the "spiritual way," by means of self-actualizing my own desires. I tried the "lonely path" submerging myself in doubts of isolation, and I frequented the "collective path" confusing myself with wits and events of everyone save me. Nothing worked.
I had created a labyrinth of perplexity far from the simple means of the remedial life that I had desired. For years, I walked the maze I had created for myself, never getting any nearer to what I later discovered to be Redemption. My life, although still in my hands, was now meant for something or Someone who beckoned in the still of the night. A Voice, a Lover, a Whisperer in the dark, cried for something I couldn't give or at least didn't know how to give. In the midst of my apathetic maze, I knew my heart craved something more, but I had naught. I knew not how to respond to this Someone who summoned me body and soul.
My existence was slowly being frayed end to end by means of my own creed, "If I could only heal myself from the destruction I had created within, I could live on." But divine resistance forced me to look beyond my "arrows" to the hope that lay ahead. And from the moment I fled the flood, I knew I couldn't do it alone. I needed something else. I needed this Someone, I needed this Divine One.
All at once I heard Her. She rang from every steeple, and every rosary. From every crucifix, and icon I heard her. From the Sacraments she screamed and begged for me. She begged for me. The Church begged for me!
Why, God?! Why? How can You cry to me from something I can't conform to? Why would You desire me to live this Way: this way that doesn't seem to be the right way? Why?
My disease had finally found its cure. This way, the way, would be the only way I would survive. The cathedral was my hospital. The priest was my doctor. The community my therapy. The Eucharist my medicine. I would live, and I would live a life that would thrive.
To this day, I remain in the hospital with my doctors and therapists visiting weekly. I still cry when my body envelops the Medicine I had never received before. He is mine, all mine!
When I was in the womb, I was diagnosed with terminal life, no longer an illness, but a hope.
By the time I was in my teens, my disease, which I came to discover as sin, had taken hold of my heart and left me unabashedly helpless. I did all I could to combat this sin with doses of thoughtless prayers and obligated church sightings. Nothing seemed to work. I went the "natural route," leaving behind the "spiritual way," by means of self-actualizing my own desires. I tried the "lonely path" submerging myself in doubts of isolation, and I frequented the "collective path" confusing myself with wits and events of everyone save me. Nothing worked.
I had created a labyrinth of perplexity far from the simple means of the remedial life that I had desired. For years, I walked the maze I had created for myself, never getting any nearer to what I later discovered to be Redemption. My life, although still in my hands, was now meant for something or Someone who beckoned in the still of the night. A Voice, a Lover, a Whisperer in the dark, cried for something I couldn't give or at least didn't know how to give. In the midst of my apathetic maze, I knew my heart craved something more, but I had naught. I knew not how to respond to this Someone who summoned me body and soul.
My existence was slowly being frayed end to end by means of my own creed, "If I could only heal myself from the destruction I had created within, I could live on." But divine resistance forced me to look beyond my "arrows" to the hope that lay ahead. And from the moment I fled the flood, I knew I couldn't do it alone. I needed something else. I needed this Someone, I needed this Divine One.
All at once I heard Her. She rang from every steeple, and every rosary. From every crucifix, and icon I heard her. From the Sacraments she screamed and begged for me. She begged for me. The Church begged for me!
Why, God?! Why? How can You cry to me from something I can't conform to? Why would You desire me to live this Way: this way that doesn't seem to be the right way? Why?
My disease had finally found its cure. This way, the way, would be the only way I would survive. The cathedral was my hospital. The priest was my doctor. The community my therapy. The Eucharist my medicine. I would live, and I would live a life that would thrive.
To this day, I remain in the hospital with my doctors and therapists visiting weekly. I still cry when my body envelops the Medicine I had never received before. He is mine, all mine!
When I was in the womb, I was diagnosed with terminal life, no longer an illness, but a hope.
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