I'll tell you a story. Four years ago I sat at the end of my bed at 3 in the morning, in tears, furious, frightened, exhausted, as drained and hopeless as I have ever been in this bruised and blessed world, at the very end of the end of my rope, and She spoke to me. I know it was Her. I have no words with which to tell you how sure I am that it was the Mother. Trust me.
Let it go, She said.
The words were clear, unambiguous, crisp, unadorned. They appeared whole and gentle and adamant in my mind, more clearly than if they had somehow been spoken in the dark salt of the room. I have never had words delivered to me so clearly and powerfully and yet so gently and patiently, never.
Let it go.
I did all the things you would do in that situation. I sat bolt upright. I looked around me. I listened for more words. I looked out the window to see if someone was standing in the garden talking to me through the window. I wondered for a second if my wife or children had spoken in their sleep. I waited for Her to say something more. She didn't speak again. The words hung sizzling in my mind for a long time and then faded. It's hard to explain. It's like they were lit and then the power slowly ebbed.
Let it go.
She knew how close I was to absolute utter despair, to a sort of madness, to a country in which many sweet and holy things would be broken, and She reached for me and cupped me in Her hand and spoke into the me of me and I will never forget Her voice until the day I die. I think about it every day. I hold those words close and turn them over and over and look at them in every light and from every angle.
For more than a year I told no one about this, not even my wife whom I love dearly and who has a heart bigger than a star, but then I told two friends, and I told them because they told me that they too had been Spoken to in moments of great darkness. A clan of the consoled, and there must be millions of us.
We say a great deal about the Mother. …