Crying and struggling to finish the last 100 or so pages of the book “The Hawk and the Dove,” it has left me with a deep and thankful heart for all that Christ has brought me through. The last third of the book follows an Abbott from the 14th century who was severely maimed and crippled, then left nearly helpless after a terrible stoke muted and paralyzed the only workable side of his body. His dearest friend and fellow monk struggled for weeks to put the pain of his friends grief out of his mind, to not think of it meant “peace” in his heart, but I think we all know that that kind of peace is no peace at all, but a thick and muted grief of our own.
As I read the struggle of this monk to face the heartache of his Abbott and close friend, it connected in such a deep way. Years ago, going through too many close ones dying or battling against disability, I forged a path of holding in the pain and putting on a face to feel at “peace.” I think this is probably a common reaction that many of us have. Through difficult days and sleepless nights the grace of God met me and showed me that it was within this hurt that He could become real, in the dependence on Christ–the freedom of Christ’ loved flowed.
How sweet it is to dive into the deep, dive into the raw, the ragged and desolate and find Jesus there. To find his scarred hands and strong arms open and His eyes weeping with you.
How can we enter into this together and hold each other up while we struggle so as to not diminish the healing touch of God’s grace for the lonely?