Carol seems to be fixated on the now almost fully open magnolia blossom, that spreads across the dark green like a creamy white dinner plate. I find that I am watching for the peacock.
"There is a purpose to our being here, Christopher", says Carol, unprompted.
"I suppose you could call it that."
"We are all, individually and collectively, undergoing a kind of spiritual surgery. Such is often the purpose of such a retreat. But here there is a difference."
"What would that be?"
"We are all undergoing the same kind of surgery. Carl and Melissa, as well as you and I. The three women and Francois, along with Aaron and Jesús. All of us. It's messy. And chaotic. And so highly necessary. This is going to be difficult. And we are all in it together, as alone and isolated as some of us might feel at the time. What, by the way, is your vocation?"
"I work in palliative care."
"With the dying. My God, young man. With the dying!" She looks down at her book, as though thinking of picking it up again, ignores it, and says, "Christopher, we are all in one terrible, dreadful mess here. And this has to be. We were all summoned here. By God, and it might be a dreadful thing to fall into the hands of the living God, but here we are, we have all fallen into those hands, those terrible, open and wounded hands of Christ, and now the blood is touching us all...."
No comments:
Post a Comment