grace of being

It was a moment of crystal clear consciousness, an awareness of beauty, an engagement of total being—as I recall. I emerged as though out of a drowning bottomless eddy—numb, confused, breathing but not living.

My heart was with her, in her grave, under the headstone I had crafted. Her body was barely cold in the ground. My mind determined that I must continue to live with brute effort. To signify my resolution, I’d enrolled in a language class at the University. I would speak. I would speak even in other languages, an effort to remind myself I was still alive. I would continue to learn—to pursue my goals. I would woo my heart out of that grave, down there with her.

I was walking across the bridge toward campus, the skyline to my right, on a backdrop of the most outstanding wash of periwinkle. The air—crisp. Then it happened. Unsolicited. Unannounced. It was as though I’d walked into a pocket of pure oxygen. It was a moment of pure awareness, encounter of being...seemingly random...certainly, pure grace. I stopped in surprise. I reveled in the moment. I felt a moment of pure God.