Once you’ve heard a child cry out to Heaven for help, and go unanswered,
nothing’s ever the same again.
Nothing.
Even God changes.
But there is a healing hand at work that cannot be deflected from its purpose. I just can’t make sense of it, other than to cry. Those tears are part of what it is to be a monk.
Out there, in the world, it can be very cold. It seems to be about luck, good and bad, and the distribution is absurd.
We have to be candles, burning between hope and despair, faith and doubt, life and death, all the opposites.