Som'lorea

So, here is the beginning of the thing. There are many things which have had beginnings, some great and some small; but all have had beginnings. It is difficult to know which way a beginning will lead, but it always—as its nature demands—must begin. For some few years, I have written for my own heart, accompanied by various joys and sorrows; not that I wrote for myself, but that the things that have been written have not been shared with others. That is the thing about writing: not all of it is to be shared. Some of it must be discarded, giving way for what is new or perhaps what is better. It is like the discard of sourdough, speaking to you bakers, which must be taken out, allowing for the formation of a new batch of starter dough. 

I have, however, struggled to understand what is to be used in the batch and what is to be thrown away. There is an interesting idea, when these things are accompanied by faith. And it may be a faith of a kind that pertains only to natural things, since faith is not merely for the supernatural. After all, how many believe in the presence and constancy of gravity, which is not seen or heard, but is instead only observed by the effects of its presence? But, faith is—for me—a matter of the supernatural. More specifically, that God became man, living among them, so that through his love, a dying world might be redeemed to life. As I was, then. This idea, being driven by faith, is that there are greater goods that may only be received through the giving back of lesser goods. 

Take, for example, a child that has no toy and thus weeps every day for one. Of course, any good parent would be distraught by this, having a loving kind of nature towards them. No good parent wishes evil on their children, but instead delights in giving them good gifts. So, seeing that this child is without joy, the parent purchases them a lovely villa, somewhere in the south of France, with a great, florid portico to greet them, followed by the flowing wealth of internal décor that we all imagine. The child is still quite young, of course, so they lack even the simple mechanics to scale the stairs of this villa, let alone care for it and appreciate it, as it is meant to be. This presents an interesting dilemma, for obvious reasons, so the parent decides that perhaps this is a joy that the child may better have when it is older. They decide, then, to leave the villa to the care of an estate manager, who cares for the home as if it was their own—only until the child is of age. Then, the child may see fit to keep the estate manager on, who may instruct them in the care of such a beautiful estate, or that it is better to let them go—but this is of a different story. Some of you may say “oh, now the child still sits without a toy!” But, for the sake of believability, you may suppose that they were later bought their toy.

That is the first part. Now, imagine that as the child grows, they are given other toys, having them for seasons, then leaving them behind. Some are left behind with ease, like the old barbie for the new barbie, or the Tonka truck for the remote-controlled monster truck. Others, however, must be shown as temporary goods by the wisdom of their parent; then, giving way for the greater gift that is to come. After all, no good is eternal now. All things that are good for a day come for a while and then are gone, just as we are. It is not the day that we live for, then, but the eternal day.

Yet, it is a difficult lesson to learn: that as we grow, the gifts that are with us must also grow, sometimes coming in forms that are familiar and pleasant, and other times taking on disguise. It is not that those which are disguised are deceptive, but that they appear in disguise. Not all good is the good we believe, and not all evil is the evil we believe. Thus, the need for a parent who knows wisdom, seeing good as it is, and seeing evil as it is.

This is a simple idea in form, but one that evades me still. I, of course, am like this child in all ways, who, being young, understands very little of the good that is given to me; and, further, resists the falling away of one gift for the birth of another. My heart still latches on to what it knows, even if it is an inferior good, though still being good. It fears the loss of one thing, believing that the greater promised gift may not come: here is the dilemma of faith. It may be said that the purpose of these writings is not to see within the author, but that the he happens to be the only person he near-fully understands—it is easier to draw from wells that are familiar, than from the wells of others, which are not familiar. I know the way to the well of my own heart, but cannot find the way to another’s, as it is not mine to draw from. So, I hope you may enjoy the waters that I draw from, and in turn find those that are deep within you, if you do not yet know them.