. . . for large things to be made small and small things to be made large. Masses shrink. Iron levels increase.
This seems reasonable enough. Things can swell. Things can shrink. We've heard stories of or witnessed such miracles.
But what about lost things of a living, physical nature? A lost eye or limb, a clipped thumb.
Where there is physical loss--it seems to me--we rarely pray with the same fervor, the same purposefulness, the same level of hope and expectation that we would use to pray for more health or less sickness. More happiness and less pain. More good fortune and less disparity. Part of this, I'm guessing, is from our observation of this finite existence: we know that not all lost things can be restored, not here. What is lost physically, emotionally, spiritually, socially, financially, politically, personally, religiously is not always found, not always regained.
I am convinced, though, that every loss grants us other gains, often imperceptible to the naked eye, yet formative, defining, and alive.
I wonder what my losses mean. How they've changed me. If they've had any purpose beyond suffering. (Or if, as a human, I'm making meaning where there is none.)
2 comments:
My brother lost 3 of his fingers in an accident. He lost more than just fingers, though. There were other things, i.e. his self-confidence, his ability to interact with people without being ashamed or embarrassed. Though he seems OK now, I know he still misses having them, his fingers: when he goes to the temple, when he plays video games, when he teaches his daughter to count to five. Are there gains to every loss? Perhaps. But the scale isn't balanced. Not always.
Beautiful post. You've done it again, Lisa.
This is beautiful. Once again I am in awe of your wisdom.
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