Ray of Light

"All history becomes subjective; in other words there is properly no history, only biography. Every mind must know the whole lesson for itself--must go over the whole ground. What it does not see, what it does not live, it will not know."

--Ralph Waldo Emerson

Something happens to you when you are touched with tragedy-- when your prayers aren't answered, and your miracles go ungranted. It is something that others cannot see or know, unless they have lived it.

You start to emit rays of light to all others who have been touched with tragedy. They unknowingly cling to you. Like moths to a flame, they flock to the brightly glowing embers of the wounds you are still willing to heal. Once they reach you, they know not why they are there. They flutter around in the glow of someone who has gone before them, and has not completely faded into the darkness, yet; stunned and fluttering they spew their own thoughts and fears forward. You listen as they pray their prayers, and wish for their miracles, but you are keenly aware that your history has become their future.

Because miracles don't always come. At least, not the miracles we hope for. While we pray for clashes of thunder and bolts of lightning from heavenly clouds above pointed straight down into the fiery pits of our sorrows bent on erradicating all evil from our lives, what we usually receive are umbrellas and gulashes from kind strangers to weather the upcoming storms.

And the storms do come. They are mighty at first, and then scattered and unexpected- on and off again for seemingly ages as you muddle through your grief. As the years wear on and the scars soften- still there but not as raw- you become keenly aware that the wear and rugged waters created by your unanswered prayers have eroded the edges of your exterior, and revealed gifts and talents that no other circumstance in your life could have unearthed. Your new gifts are unwanted and lonely and cold. But they are also necessary and comforting and beckoning to so many. Your knowledge surpasses anything that the unafflicted could ever know until God forbid, tragedy strikes them too.

Your new powers forge you into a safe harbor for the newly-weary, a lighthouse for the lost, a comforting voice to an old friend who has just learned her mother is not long for this world, or a reminder to the unafflicted about how very lucky they are, so that they may cherish what they still have. And while you never would have wished for these gifts, knowing they are there makes the loss seem more bearable and not so meaningless.

So you keep your light burning bright, and you welcome the newly afflicted with warm embraces and calm words. Because you know the whole lesson, and you have lived it for yourself.