One’s own sadness is a great trial to bear. Another’s sadness is yet more wrenching. One is not granted the power to alleviate the other’s sadness, only to commiserate with them.
On one level, I ache for your ache. On another level, I revel (is that too strong a word?) in the fruit your sadness bears. I say it cautiously, yet it can’t be denied. The glimpses you give us through poetry and song, whether your own or another’s is thrilling. It’s achingly beautiful.
Herein is a paradox, one which I’m sure the Heavenly Father intended, that the pain the members of His Body endure should give rise to such glory. It’s like how Thérèse of Lisieux could find beauty in the Holy Face of the Redeemer, marred as It was. Or how CS Lewis’ bittersweet romance and brief marriage to Joy Davidman yielded up wondrous literary and dramatic treasures, Till We Have Faces, A Grief Observed, and Shadowlands.
I wouldn’t begin to have the temerity to assume that my words have power to console; it’s proven very hit-or-miss. I do say that I’m moved to express my own inner stirrings in response to yours.
You have a very beautiful voice, and I am guessing a spirit to go along with that. I hope you will look up, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” on Amazon, for I think your heart is big enough for my story, the story of thousands of women and children, the people who lost everything mid-century, and who have now forgotten how we lived. Grace be with you. Barbara Everett Heintz
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One’s own sadness is a great trial to bear. Another’s sadness is yet more wrenching. One is not granted the power to alleviate the other’s sadness, only to commiserate with them.
On one level, I ache for your ache. On another level, I revel (is that too strong a word?) in the fruit your sadness bears. I say it cautiously, yet it can’t be denied. The glimpses you give us through poetry and song, whether your own or another’s is thrilling. It’s achingly beautiful.
Herein is a paradox, one which I’m sure the Heavenly Father intended, that the pain the members of His Body endure should give rise to such glory. It’s like how Thérèse of Lisieux could find beauty in the Holy Face of the Redeemer, marred as It was. Or how CS Lewis’ bittersweet romance and brief marriage to Joy Davidman yielded up wondrous literary and dramatic treasures, Till We Have Faces, A Grief Observed, and Shadowlands.
I wouldn’t begin to have the temerity to assume that my words have power to console; it’s proven very hit-or-miss. I do say that I’m moved to express my own inner stirrings in response to yours.
You have a very beautiful voice, and I am guessing a spirit to go along with that. I hope you will look up, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” on Amazon, for I think your heart is big enough for my story, the story of thousands of women and children, the people who lost everything mid-century, and who have now forgotten how we lived. Grace be with you. Barbara Everett Heintz