It seems so obvious. So clear cut black and white plain English where hope dwells. Even on the day when it hurts the most, the image behind my eyelids can’t be void of everything. If I close my eyes right now, it’s even black, the graying moving kind. It’s something better than nothing. I would even live for black for a time, the deeper stiller version, if that’s all I could hope in. But when the black turns to emptiness, I find that life ends. If hope is real, if there’s a plan at all, then that void will never come; it can’t break through the black canvas.
How many days of black canvas cloud out hope? And how many days without hope can a life sustain? Maybe three. That’s days or years or lifetimes, not sure.
David Foster Wallace said months before his, that suicide was a clean-up of a mess made some time before, maybe long before. That death had long since been rotting inside a living breathing skin, and that the death that makes the papers is required to be orderly. You know, just following up.
I can’t agree. No one who trusts in the Son of God is ever cleaning up. Christ did the brutal clean up a while back, and all we do when we try to do His job all over again is dishonor everything He stands for. Hope is within reach even in this wretched life. Even when, day after day, there’s nothing but black canvas behind closed eyes.
Today I’m angry with ignorance. And wondering why I never said this straight. Still fearing another day of why because of something I didn’t say.