glorious.

the first email of the day:

***************

You know, it was a really intense weekend, for obvious reasons. When something that traumatizing happens it sort of jolts you (or at least me) into this ultra-existential mentality where everything is about being a live or dying. Everything I ate had these phenomenal tastes... I was overly aware of every touch, every temperature. Every ache, every itch... every sound outside the window, and ESPECIALLY every tick of a clock. I felt like I never could find a place anywhere in Birmingham where there wasn't a ticking clock in the background. It was horrifying..and liberating...and profound.

Kaitlin sent me a text late Friday night that said she'd gotten a phone call from someone who had spoken with Cameron's mother; She said it wasn't an accident, that Peter meant to take his life. Peter meant to die.

He meant to just quit life.

And he did. They pronounced him dead at 2 am Saturday. Peter is dead. On purpose.

When I got that text, without even really thinking or processing it, I literally got out of bed and onto my face in the floor of the bedroom. I've never, in my entire existence, wept like I did then. And it was among the most profound layers and layers of feeling I think I've ever ever had... I was sobbing so fast and so hard that the only words I could manage to pray or even remotely whisper were "It's so dark here... do something."

It was all I could write. All I could say about the entire situation -- be it however muddled with my current circumstances (rather, my current understanding of my circumstances and my childhood and who I am and what's been done to me)-- was that it's all so dark. And the darkness is so oppressive. Then the greatest thing I think I've ever experienced...

I was in that floor and I could almost see myself at the feet of God Himself... begging for Him to get us out of here, it's so hard and heavy. It's so dark, I said. Do something. Do something beautiful.

And as clear as I can see the message (not the words, but the message) I'm writing you right now, He lifted my face (after a bit of struggle) and gave me this overwhelming desire to feel around on my own face, my own body. I'm okay.

I'm okay.

I'm here. I'm still alive. This has happened. This is my life. These things have happened to me. All of these things have happened to me. And somehow, by some unspeakable grace in my life, I'm still here.

I'm okay.

And He's doing something beautiful.

That was my weekend. It doesn't merit any smiley faces I suppose. But I think I might be a little different today than I was a week ago. And what's the point of a story if the character doesn't change, right?

Anyway, I suppose all that was to say, I'm glad we're okay today. And I hope my perspective can stay in this sharply focused place that is right now... though I know it's only a matter of time before it moves again...

and so it goes.

Be alive today.