It is late at night. The air conditioning is out. It's very dark and and very hot and very quiet. I am completely sober. I have no need to drink. The natural imbalance of my own hormones is enough for me to deal with.
I was asked recently if I was feeling too alive lately. Too alive? This question was offered by a person who thinks it's a great idea to numb himself regularly with booze just about every night. Too alive, indeed.
I'd rather feel everything, painful as it may be, than feel nothing at all. Feeling nothing -- that's not feeling. That's just being numb. And I don't care what Pink Floyd says, being numb is not comfortable, not for very long.
I have come to the conclusion within the past few days that there really is no one in the world like me. This may seem extraordinarily obvious. But I think about it. I ponder it. I muse about it. There are six billion people on the earth at this moment and there are probably another 12 billion or so who have walked it sometime in the past and none of them, not a single one out there is just like me.
That's sort of crazy to think about. There is no one out there who is a grunge music fan and a die-hard Catholic. Well, that's not true. I remember being overjoyed when attending Mass one day at Franciscan University and noticing a guy seated in front of me with a Nirvana Incesticide T-shirt on. He probably scandalized the many good girls around me, but he was God's sign of love and acceptance to my eyes. I remember I was new at the school and I thought, "I DO belong here! There ARE others like me."
Praise God for that guy in the Nirvana shirt. Praise God for that girl at FUS in the Nine Inch Nails shirt. Praise God for that guy at FUS with the Smashing Pumpkins shirt. Praise God for my boyfriend-turned-husband who had the guts to let me tease his hair and paint his eyes with eyeliner and eyeshadow and put him in a black button-down shirt and a black broom skirt and bring him to an 80's dance on campus. It was the funniest thing that night -- it was vocations weekend and on our way to the dance, we had to pass up many nuns and priests and just smile and nod.
Still, I think I might be the only person in the world who still -- 14 years later -- prays for the soul of Kurt Cobain, that he may one day soon enter into the full glory of Heaven. And even if I'm not the only one praying for him, I might be the only one convinced that he actually benefits from my prayers and helps me along from time to time. The communion of saints: The Church Militant, the Church Suffering, the Church Glorified.
I have been going through purgation lately. The Lord has been forming my heart to be much like His. I have been learning to love like He does. It's beautiful. It's wonderful. It's painful.
I have always been fascinated by the mystics -- the saints who have supernatural experiences of God. Other people read the intellectual writings of Augustine and Aquinas. Me, I read the biographies of Francis of Assisi, Teresa of Avila, Terese of Lisieux, Faustina of Poland, Padre Pio of Petrelcina. I have always been amazed by the supernatural. I am particularly amazed by the victim souls: those who ask, beg, and plead to share in the sufferings of Christ in order to make reparation for the sins of others.
This has always seemed a little crazy to me. I mean, how, why, what are they thinking, asking for suffering? Suffering is no fun. Suffering is something to be avoided, something to be soothed, to be pitied, to be made better. I have had many bouts with depression in my life and I never enjoyed the suffering.
But now I think I understand. These past few months, I have learned that it's not about wanting to feel pain. It's about aching with so much love for a person that you are willing to do anything, anything at all, to help that person have a more fulfilling life. See, the suffering is already present in the ache of the heart. The physical suffering is actually a relief because then you know you're doing something to assist that person along in their journey toward peace, love, and joy.
Now, I know that hair shirts and nail belts and self-flagellations are way out of style. They are no longer the in thing as far as the Catholic Church is concerned. I know that. I'm not going out there seeking suffering. Believe me. I've got four kids at home all day every day. I have enough to offer up just in the normal course of my routine. But I have taken up more prayers and I have taken up exercise and I have forgone simple pleasures here and there and maybe just maybe I will prove my love even moreso by taking up running again and offering that for reparation.
My heart yearns now in a way it has never yearned before. And I believe that is because my heart loves now in a way it has never loved before. Pure love. Complete love. Big blazing inferno love. A love bomb explosion, as Christopher West would say.
What is a love bomb explosion, you may ask. It is when you see somebody -- somebody in the airport, somebody in a newspaper, somebody online -- you see that person, you meet him, you hear about him...somehow, you connect with that person. And it's not like you go gaga over him. It's not at all like fainting over a rock star. It's like you suddenly see that person through God's eyes. You see him for just how beautiful and wonderful and amazing and love-worthy he is. And it doesn't matter how much you know or don't know about him. It doesn't matter how he is living his life now or how he may have lived it in the past. All that matters is that you want him to see himself just as you see him at that moment -- during that moment of that love bomb explosion. You want him to know how much he is completely, utterly, and totally loved and how much he is absolutely worthy of that love. You want him to respond to that love and be happy and be joyful and be at peace with himself.
But it's the response that's tricky. How do you explain love to someone who has never been honestly loved before? How do you explain honesty to someone who believes it is fleeting and intangible? How do you explain forever to someone who lives only in the now? How do you explain those things? How? How? My heart aches. I am completely honest with someone who admits to despising the truth. I have complete acceptance for a person who may never accept my acceptance of him. I have an everlasting love for someone who may not care if I disappear tomorrow. God give me the strength to endure the intensity of this love, no matter what the response.
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I would walk up to your door, but you would answer before I knocked. You would take my hand and welcome me into your home. I would stand there with the feeling I always have when meeting one of my newborns: You're here. You're real. Look at you – your face, your hands, your skin.
Then I would wrap my arms around you and breathe in your scent and my whole being would be filled with contentment. After the embrace, we'd talk for awhile. And the whole time, I would want to touch your hand or your arm, just to remind myself that you're really here. Eventually, you'd put on Silversun Pickups and I would have to dance. I would close my eyes, not to block out my surroundings, but to fully enter into the world that the music was drawing me into. You might join me in the dance or you might just sit there on the couch, being entertained by it all.
I'd have a drink after that – whatever you offered me – and we'd talk some more. The night would grow long and you'd take me into your sanctuary, your room. You'd show me all your pictures on the wall and explain your little treasures that you keep on your desk and your shelves. I would enjoy hearing about your memories and your travels and your view of the world. You'd grow tired of talking and you'd lay down on your bed. I'd sit on the edge beside you, holding your hand.
You'd be sleepy and I'd sing:
Sweet sweet sweet
Sweet little agony
I don't know just where you've been
But I'll take take take
All that you have for me
[And say] Where are we going?
Then I'd lift the back of your hand to my cheek and I'd notice a scar on your wrist and one on your forearm and one on your shoulder and three along your neck. I would press my lips to them all, trying to somehow ease the pain behind them. And then I'd lay next to you and put my head on your chest and listen to your heartbeat: slow, strong, steady. I'd want to fall asleep to the lulling rhythm, but you would fall asleep first and I would force myself to sit up.
I would trace a cross upon your forehead and say, God bless you, [dear sweet boy]. I'd place my hand on your chest to feel your heartbeat one last time and say, I hope to see you again one day, because Heaven just wouldn't be Heaven without you. I'd wipe away the wetness from my eyes and press my cheek to yours, breathing in your scent again. I'd touch my fingers to my lips and then yours and I'd remember you always.
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