H,
It is not usual or mundane, these ordinary days in the cusp of something that we have not yet realized. We have always had this idea that there is something more to this almost frivolous state of being. We know it is not enough to succeed or fail, to be up or down, to slay the beast or to be consumed by mammon, nothing ever has the taste of those distant universes of our mind, forming once and again, into the signposts of God.
It is this missing piece, this idea that our identity on earth is receding into forgotten history and no one will speak for us when we are dead, that terror, that fright, that signal in the night that tells us we do not matter, it is that thing itself that is the clearest evidence, against what the darkness would have us think, that there is something else for us than just the ignoble passing of days. We are made of and made for the more eternal stuff of the universe. We see it in the limitless imagination of the human mind, the endless hunger of the human heart and the powerful call to worship from the human soul. We are in search of something that has already found us.
So, after all this cosmic poetry, why is there pain? Why do people suffer in the dark and in the light? Why do children go hungry and parents act wicked and the poor and the broken and the brokenhearted and the false prophets and the fake dawns and all of this, on our blue planet spinning endless in limited space while we plunder and lie and die in unison with an inevitable thirst for destruction? I do not know the answer. We are in the pilgrimage to understand, first the heart of God, then the hand of God and, finally, the plan of God. Or, maybe, the ancient poet was already right: here “..comes wisdom through the awful grace of God.”