Those hours of silent contemplation wrought a subtle but lasting change within me; at the time it did not feel subtle. It felt like dynamite applied beneath my soul: kaboom went everything I thought I knew, and I have been processing the experience, and working at restoration, ever since. And this has been difficult because, while words are my work and my play, they have utterly failed my process, and my comprehension.
Or not my comprehension, not really. I know what I comprehended, but it was something of such a different order. Imagine finding something—like a stone—covered with a strange writing that you are instantly, in a flash, able to understand. But you cannot translate it for anyone else because, although you know the message, there is no language on earth by which it may be conveyed.
You fall back on one word, “love,” but that word is wholly insufficient—using it is like trying to describe a deluge when the only word at your disposal is “damp.”
The love—it was blinding, mesmerizing, all-encompassing, warm, delightful—I still don’t have the words. One night I wrote to a friend, “I still have a long way to go before I can articulate what I learned there, in the amazing, tender presence of Him.”
Him. It was while I was on retreat, prostrate before the Lord in the Blessed Sacrament, awash in that otherworldly presence, that I very naturally addressed him as “Your Majesty.”
In the presence of Love
August 24, 2011 by joyfulpapist