The pain and beauty of lost mornings

Every morning in the world evoked a profound joy. A gift from heaven. For 16 years! So many years spent in the simple joy of meeting at dawn, rediscovering each other, renewing a tacit agreement, an unwritten law.

Two and a half years ago, I wrote that every morning in the world was a journey of prayer^.That was false… I lied. Before finding Him again, before even reaching the prie-dieu, I found her. She came before everything else. She was the springboard for my awakening. We couldn't wake up without each other. Especially at the end, when time was running out. Since Maiko is gone, every morning in the world feels more like the Stations of the Cross.

I get up reluctantly. Sometimes I'm awake, waiting for a signal that never comes. I wait for a sound, a groan, anything at all. I listen to the silence, which has lost all its charm and disgusts me. I miss the little yelps my caresses used to elicit. The joy of knowing I was there, the joy of being known, the joy of being recognized.

Morning declares day to night. Morning makes day habitable. Hatred of morning makes day uncertain. Morning has control over us as we have control over it. We impose a rhythm upon it. It compels us to habit. A dog does not tire of habit. It lives by it. It structures its thought and imposes its rhythm. Improvisation has not yet surfaced in its thinking. It comes with age, despite oneself. When thought falters.

I have returned to prayer. I hadn't abandoned it for long. Leaden feet lead me there. It no longer needs an introduction. It doesn't calm my anger. My rising is feverish and nauseous. I find every morning uncertain. As for the day, it is born and dies in utilitarianism. At least it doesn't encourage me to think of her. Unconditional love vanished from my life on her birthday, the day she turned sixteen.

How can I praise God without His introduction? Everything used to be easy. Now everything is laborious. Minutes feel like hours. And yet, I must still love Him as if nothing were amiss. Without God, I would be even more naked than I already am. But I would like to tell Him that it's not possible, that there's been a mistake, that we must revise the agreements that bind us. But it's not possible. And Maiko never asked for it. I'm the one asking for it in exchange for the lack of consideration. Does anyone care about me when I'm not dead? The living, in mourning, dream that their cries will echo everywhere.

Who loves a doctrine in hand? The abyss opens beneath our feet. Not to stop believing in God, but to stop believing in His goodness. All the mechanical phrases we hear become piercing spears when they try to offer comfort^."She is in heaven..." "It is God's will..." No comfort soothes the pain that courses through our veins. There is no balm but the passing of time. Job asks: "I cry out to you, and you do not answer me; I stand, and you look at me. You have become cruel to me^." Jesus weeps at the loss of His friend, Lazarus, whom He immediately raises from^{the dead}. Why? What do His tears mean? What truth lies within the loss of a loved one? What truth must I witness here below? Is there a path to heaven in this? Why this cruelty, or at least what appears to us as such?

Pain sets its own rhythm. At times, it flows like a raging river. At others, it swells to a trickle. Nothing can channel it. There is no dam or dike to regulate it. Pain runs its course without regard for the person who bears it. It divides, isolates, confines. It reigns. Life, in its presence, changes direction and slips from our grasp. It controls us. Yet, for a believer, life is God. Its guide.

“You shall worship the Lord your God and love him above all things.” What more can be said? There could be only one commandment, the first. It sums up all the others. It silences the slightest complaint. It renders us listless. As often happens, Saint Paul delivers the final blow: “What do you have that you did not receive^? ” The dog gives everything, knows no cheating or half-measures. The dog is man’s greatest friend. Returning him to his Creator compels us to give everything back.

Every morning in the world, these caresses were not mine. These caresses were given to me. These yelps were offered to me. Do we lose sight of what is given to us? What becomes our daily life seems to belong to us. It does not. Everything escapes us. Especially time and duration. The ephemeral surpasses understanding. No morning in the world will ever be the same again. Maiko has untied the ties that bound her to earth. Every morning in the world will henceforth be nothing but gratitude.