Day 1: Oh Lord, the Light

Day 1: Amber’s Journal Entry 1

The Light. Oh Lord, the Light of the Creator’s love was so strong as I approached. I could feel parts of me burning off, and I got lighter and lighter. Then there was a moment when I was afraid, because I thought if I got any closer to that Light I would burn away, nothing left. Then you stepped between us. I saw the outline of your form, almost like a shadow of a man. Then there we were, together, the Light streaming around you, lighting you up, too, and I knew that somehow you were that Light. I saw the wounds on your wrists where the nails pierced you as they hung you up, the string of cut marks across your forehead where the thorns punctured to your skull. The puncture wound in your side from the spear that told Roman soldiers you were dead. And when you wrapped your arms around me, I was reborn. I could stand in the Light. I was still me, but not me alone. I was me with the Spirit fully alive within, the Spirit no longer peeking out from beneath the shell of my flesh and blood. For a moment I thought you had made me into an angel. Then I saw an angel, a being whose radiance next to God’s is a candle near a supernova, but next to mine is a searchlight next to a match.

“Child,” you said, and I loved hearing you say that. Suddenly I was wrapped in acceptance; I was in Ohio on the porch in my father’s lap; I was in my sick bed and my mother was wiping off fever sweat with a damp cloth and snuggling me into dry flannel pajamas. “Child, your heart is still in two places. Part of your heart is here with me, and part of it longs to be with Reese.”

“No, my Lord, I love you with all my heart.” And for a second I thought you might send me away. I longed to be right where I was forever, in this place where my pain did not follow me.

And I DID love him, I know I did. He had to know that, too, because I knew he could see right into me, right past all the places he’d glued back together, all the ways in which I had held him at bay all my life, hiding and holding on to my pain, my separation a cloak I pretended he could not see through.

“Child,” you said, “I accept that you love me with all the heart you have left, all that is not still with Reese. And your love, divided as it is, is precious to me. You also love your Reese and it holds you to who you were. You must go to him as his Zoë. I have brought him back. He will not see you as you were but as you are, and so he will not know you. That will hurt. You must decide what to do with your pain, what to do with that love. What you decide, I will bless. Go to him now. But be wise. Watch him. Be sure he is ready.”

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