Being loved . . .
it is a fine place to begin . . .
and I can see the glimmering of the deeper forest a ways off but not so far as before . . .
the forest depths that are God’s own deepening and loving and being . . .
a place not light but dark . . .
a place where privation thrives
it is a good thing for the only thing, even that small thing, is the only thing . . .
God . . .
and yes, dear Julian, all is well and will be well and whether I am here for the broken or they for me ceases to matter for there is only love . . .
for me . . .
for them . . .
my own but an imperfect imagining of the real thing, the only thing, that is God . . .
but it will have to do, for it is all that I have and all that I am . . .
and lo, it is enough and more than enough and here I am and this then is purpose –
not in the broken ones nor in me, but in God . . .
where purpose has always resided . . .
where else could it live?