Till we have faces.

Last night I finished Till We Have Faces by C. S. Lewis. I was wiping away tears in the coffee shop and trying not to make a scene; once I was in my car and driving home, though, I really broke down.

It was a new experience of an old feeling—what I know from the Narnia books, which is the longing for complete reconciliation, for a sun-filled courtyard where all beloved are present, and everything is understood, and everything is put right, for all eternity.

But I realized it had also instilled in me a longing for death. Over the years, as my mother grew sicker and finally died, that longing became a romance with melancholy that caused me great damage and would have caused me more, had I not been fortunate enough to have a good therapist and encounter the Buddhist chaplain at MIT, when I did.

So part of me was deeply grateful, again, to Jack for causing me to feel so deeply and to touch the truth that underlies everything, which is that Love wins in the end. But another part of me was angry. I’ve done so much work in recent years to love this life, on earth. I hope my work witnesses that this, too, is truth.