Today was one of those spend-the-day-praying kind of days. In the midst of grieving, you never quite know when something is going bring all of the sadness to the surface. It strikes you from out of nowhere. Today was like that. I was a mess, for what should have been no reason. After Mass, we spent some time at the cemetery praying. It seems like things should get easier, and often they are, but sometimes they aren't. I still haven't checked my phone messages since my mom and dad died in September. I'm sure my voicemail box is overflowing. (So if you've called my house and left a message and I haven't responded, it's not personal.) The task just seems so overwhelming. One foot in front of the other, one day at a time.
Torrey with my grandma's rosary.
All pessimism has a secret optimism for its object. All surrender of life, all denial of pleasure, all darkness, all austerity, all desolation has for its real aim this separation of something so that it may be poignantly and perfectly enjoyed. I feel grateful for the slight sprain which has introduced this mysterious and fascinating division between one of my feet and the other. The way to love anything is to realize that it might be lost. In one of my feet I can feel how strong and splendid a foot is; in the other I can realize how very much otherwise it might have been. The moral of the thing is wholly exhilarating. This world and all our powers in it are fare more awful and beautiful than even we know until some accident reminds us. If you wish to perceive that limitless felicity, limit yourself if only for a moment. If you wish to realize how fearfully and wonderfully God's image is made, stand on one leg. If you want to realize the splendid vision of all visible things - wink the other eye.
G.K. Chesterton, Tremendous Trifles