Being Loved

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?