you can love them - love them completely...

There are people who pass through our lives who trust the light within us. Not only do they see the light we barely acknowledge, but they reverence and often restore it, too. For some of us, that is no mean feat - especially if our light has rarely been shared in public and then all too quickly extinguished. They say that men often hide their light under shame while women bury it with anger. And at least for me, respecting all the insights of contemporary gender fluidity, this still rings true. A poem by Yeats that opens my favorite anthology, The Rag and Bone Shop of the Heart edited by Robert Bly, James Hillman and Michael Meade,
evokes this insight:   

Those masterful images because complete

Grew in pure mind, but out of what began?

A mound of refuse or the sweeping of a street,

Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can,

Old iron, old bones, old rages, that raving slut

Who keeps the till. Now that my ladder's gone,

I must lie down where all the ladders start,

In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.

Sometimes, but not often, the gentle and wise souls of our stories are parents. More often than not they are relatives once removed or older mentors we find in a variety of ways. Some show up serendipitously, others we search out - like spiritual directors and/or pastors - and a few are teachers who have paid careful attention to the way we move through their classes. This poem by Kory Wells captures the essence of those who see us "as through a glass darkly" and give us the benefit of the doubt. They listen and watch and encourage in small ways that cumulatively ignite the spark within into a true fire.

When she’d hand the rope to me,
she could’ve said, Here, jump
on out of my way—

I’ve got laundry to hang,
supper to cook, a shirt to mend,
this book I want to read.

She’d already taught me
Miz Mary Mac, those silver buttons,
all the other singsong rhymes.

Now she was teaching me
about metaphor, otherwise known as
pretend. She could’ve said, Here,

this is a snake—pretend
it wants to bite you, but
she was not teaching me to fear.

She could’ve said, Here,
find someone to play tug-of-war,
but she was not teaching me

to require the presence
of others. She could’ve said,
Here, this is how you make

a noose, but she was not
teaching me violence
or hatred. No,

my mother handed me
one end of that rope
secured in a stiff knot

and said, Here,
this is a microphone.
What can you sing?

("Voice" by Kory Wells)

There are also people who move in and out of our lives whom we love and respect who steadfastly refuse to trust the light we see in them. Do they choose emotional/psychological/spiritual incarceration? Or is the darkness within so significant or constant that they trust it more than the mystery called hope? I've never been able to know. Back in Cleveland my AA friends and I would ask: why do some of us make the 12 Step Program work when we hit bottom while others keep going back to the pain? Is the pain so intense that they trust what they know more than the possibility of healing? It isn't a matter of morality or integrity. Most of the time we ended these sessions simply scratching our heads and accepting the dilemma. "Who knows why some muster the courage while others cannot?" I often heard the prophet Elijah reply to the Lord while standing in the valley of dry bones: "Only Thou knowest, Lord. Only Thou."

There is a poignant scene close to the end of the film, "A River Runs Through It," where the MacLean family tries to comprehend the self-destructive ways of their youngest son, Paul. It seems that no amount of love, guidance, warning, punishment, encouragement, or support could move Paul out of his downward spiral that culminated in his murder. The words of this sermon continue to haunt me. For I, too, cannot make sense of such agony. The best I can do is entrust these loved ones to the care of God and believe that the One who is Holy cares better than I. "We can still love them - we can love them completely..."

Today, as we pack for our journey to Tucson, I am remembering both those elders and mentors who helped me accept the "foul rag-and-bone-shop of my heart" and those who remain imprisoned within it. For whatever reason I was able to hear what they wanted to teach me during the darkest days of my despair. "Trust the wisdom of your failures," they insisted, "travel through the darkness into a greater light." I rejoice in the blessing of their presence. Thank you, Sam, Martha, Ray, Jim, Dolores and Adolofo. If you have known such soul friends, give thanks to the Lord, and then pass on the gift of love as best you are able.