draw close, her force is undeniable. I think of his response to the lost diamond: I'll take care of it. I don't know what that means, but it won't involve telling Brigitte the truth. We shy away from honest engagements with herâinstead, we say what we believe she wants to hear.
We keep the peace.
As I stare into the dark, what seems so elusive in the light of day, becomes clear.
Skye was right. Brigitte is the god we bow to. But, the dark reveals no plan for toppling the idol.
I roll to my side, wrap my arm around Gerard, and rest my head on his chest. The thrum of his beating heart matches my own and lulls me back to the edge of sleepâthat place where, for a time, I can close my eyes and mind to the truth and believe, with my husband at my side, that this is where I want to be.
When you meet a person whose heart is turned toward God there is a natural, or should I say supernatural, drawing between you.
JEANNE GUYON
CHAPTER SEVEN
Matthew
I LOCK MY office door and hit the pavement, pounding the uphill blocks to the cathedral. I want time to myself before Skye shows up. My gut tells me something's up. It's already been that kind of day.
"Pay"âI huffâ"attention, buddy. You don't want to . . . miss out." I nod to a woman looking at me like I'm a derelict talking to himself. I laugh. There's always a conversation going on in my head and most of the time, it spills out my mouth.
After the third block a red light and traffic stops me. I turn, bounce on the balls of my feet, and look back at the bay. It's fallâthe air is crisp and the view is clear. "Cool." I don't think I'll ever get tired of the view. Or of the city. People, traffic, noise, people. "This is life!"
Still bouncing, I pump my fists in the air like Rocky Balboa after reaching the top of the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. "A classic movie!"
Someone else, a man this time, stares at me as he passes.
I turn back just as the light changes and pick up my pace again. As I walk, I think through my last appointment. Blake, early thirties, molested as a child by his priest and now coming out of a lifestyle of homosexuality. He's in therapy with one of my colleagues working to heal from a painful past that, many would say, led to a confusing and painful present. "Man, life is hard." I shake my head.
I think of the blog I read this morningâone I read several mornings a week. I'm not one for staring at a computer screen, so I print the entries and read them with my morning coffee. The author of the blog, whoever it is, is the real dealâsomeone with a working knowledge of pain and a real relationship with Christ. The kind with skin on it. A relationship where you struggle, cry out, and then curl up in the lap of the Comforter. "That's real, baby."
I think of the verse from 1 Peter quoted in the blog today: "In this you greatly rejoice, though now for a little while you may have had to suffer grief in all kinds of trials." I love that verse. In this. In our inheritance in Christ. That's the hope we Christians hold to. It's what keeps us focused on the finish line when we're dealing with the painful realities of life.
"But, man, if you don't have that . . ." I shake my head again.
Blake is exploring spirituality and the idea of returning to the church. His therapist suggested he start by getting to know Jesus. That's where I come in. Blake wasn't ready to walk back into a churchâany churchâso instead, his therapist recommended me, a counselor and spiritual director. It's not a long stretch between the two. Blake is one of my directees, but he isn't a typical directee. Don't get me wrong, by typical, I don't mean normal.
I laugh. "There is no normal."
A passerby apparently agrees as she makes a wide arc around me.
No matter. We're unique. Every one of us. Created in the image of God. Meaning, we each reflect the Divine in some way. "Very cool."
I so often see similarities in those who seek Christian spiritual
We keep the peace.
As I stare into the dark, what seems so elusive in the light of day, becomes clear.
Skye was right. Brigitte is the god we bow to. But, the dark reveals no plan for toppling the idol.
I roll to my side, wrap my arm around Gerard, and rest my head on his chest. The thrum of his beating heart matches my own and lulls me back to the edge of sleepâthat place where, for a time, I can close my eyes and mind to the truth and believe, with my husband at my side, that this is where I want to be.
When you meet a person whose heart is turned toward God there is a natural, or should I say supernatural, drawing between you.
JEANNE GUYON
CHAPTER SEVEN
Matthew
I LOCK MY office door and hit the pavement, pounding the uphill blocks to the cathedral. I want time to myself before Skye shows up. My gut tells me something's up. It's already been that kind of day.
"Pay"âI huffâ"attention, buddy. You don't want to . . . miss out." I nod to a woman looking at me like I'm a derelict talking to himself. I laugh. There's always a conversation going on in my head and most of the time, it spills out my mouth.
After the third block a red light and traffic stops me. I turn, bounce on the balls of my feet, and look back at the bay. It's fallâthe air is crisp and the view is clear. "Cool." I don't think I'll ever get tired of the view. Or of the city. People, traffic, noise, people. "This is life!"
Still bouncing, I pump my fists in the air like Rocky Balboa after reaching the top of the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. "A classic movie!"
Someone else, a man this time, stares at me as he passes.
I turn back just as the light changes and pick up my pace again. As I walk, I think through my last appointment. Blake, early thirties, molested as a child by his priest and now coming out of a lifestyle of homosexuality. He's in therapy with one of my colleagues working to heal from a painful past that, many would say, led to a confusing and painful present. "Man, life is hard." I shake my head.
I think of the blog I read this morningâone I read several mornings a week. I'm not one for staring at a computer screen, so I print the entries and read them with my morning coffee. The author of the blog, whoever it is, is the real dealâsomeone with a working knowledge of pain and a real relationship with Christ. The kind with skin on it. A relationship where you struggle, cry out, and then curl up in the lap of the Comforter. "That's real, baby."
I think of the verse from 1 Peter quoted in the blog today: "In this you greatly rejoice, though now for a little while you may have had to suffer grief in all kinds of trials." I love that verse. In this. In our inheritance in Christ. That's the hope we Christians hold to. It's what keeps us focused on the finish line when we're dealing with the painful realities of life.
"But, man, if you don't have that . . ." I shake my head again.
Blake is exploring spirituality and the idea of returning to the church. His therapist suggested he start by getting to know Jesus. That's where I come in. Blake wasn't ready to walk back into a churchâany churchâso instead, his therapist recommended me, a counselor and spiritual director. It's not a long stretch between the two. Blake is one of my directees, but he isn't a typical directee. Don't get me wrong, by typical, I don't mean normal.
I laugh. "There is no normal."
A passerby apparently agrees as she makes a wide arc around me.
No matter. We're unique. Every one of us. Created in the image of God. Meaning, we each reflect the Divine in some way. "Very cool."
I so often see similarities in those who seek Christian spiritual
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