Yesterday after I had sobbed out all my agony and grief when my husband told me the news on his lunch break, and we sat there on the floor holding each other, I felt the stupidest feeling: peace. It was maddening. For once since my resurrection of faith, I wished to just dwell in the agony, depression, and grief and be back to my old inconsolable self. But the peace that passes all understanding was too powerfully present. I don’t understand it. It aggravates me, but all I can do is whisper in a fragile voice to God, “I just…had other plans.”
So maybe that was more confusing than uplifting. But it’s a mystery I can’t figure out, and so it tugs at my brainwaves, begging to be understood, teasing me just outside my reach. And although I may not have an optimistic thread to grasp hold of, a mystery is a good second option. Anything to stay away from that insecure pessimist I used to know by heart. Her life isn’t something I choose to relive.