“…at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story,” I whispered. It was 2 am. “...which no one on earth has read: which goes on for ever.” The work of helping my dad into the next story was holy and heavy with love. And the words I spoke lived in the realest part of me. I think that’s what it means to believe, even when doubt is ever present.
Maybe it’s strange to write about death during Advent, a season of waiting for a birth. But birth and death go hand in hand, and I’ve been thinking we should consider them together more often. Last week I wrote about Mary’s choice to give birth to a child from God, and how her consent led to her powerful song of liberation. How does consent lead to liberation? The same way that death leads to new life, the same way the end of a story leads to a story that goes on forever. This is the logic of Love. And the door to that Love somehow has to do with belief.
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