The Edge of All I Know

My God my bright abyss
into which all my longing will not go
once more I come to the edge of all I know
and believing nothing believe in this:

― Christian Wiman

*******

Dear Kate,

I was on the internet when I heard the news.

My son asked for a new phone and I got him one.  We set it up together last night and had a good time.  We haven't done things together for a long time―probably good for him, to find his way without me.  Certainly good for me, to know a way can be found without me.

"There are things you will like about the new phone, and things you won't," I told him. "And even if it's supposed to be way better than your old one, there are new troubles that you will just need to learn to deal with, to live with."

I was ready to watch a Ken Burns documentary just now and he texted me from work.  He said data is slow on the new phone and he doesn't know why.  Though I asked him to troubleshoot on his own I hopped on the internet right away.

In no time I thought I got my answer, what could work, what I expect to work when I take the phone from his young hand tomorrow morning and make the solution come to pass.  There is a trouble and I aim to shoot it down at a certain early hour after one mere sleep.  I don't expect myself to miss.

I was on the internet when I heard the news.

A lady I knew from church since the day I came to Vancouver, which was the day I came to this church straight off the plane from Toronto, has passed away.  I heard about her terminal illness about a month ago, the last birthday party her friend gave her three weeks ago, but did expect to see her again when in-person worship service resumes, which I expected to be soon.

It wasn't exactly a shock.  What shocked me is how ruthless God can be.  I didn't ask out loud but He knew I was aiming for another chance...to say what to her I don't know...how to say anything meaningful? unthinkable...maybe something for her to take with her and plead with God on my behalf...a question....why the troubles in life and that we are expected to shoot them dead to stay alive...why are we so helpless after all...so alone to find our own ways, without Him...

The last time I looked at her was with my back―what sacrilege.  I was talking to her friend, her roommate, about finding housing once the expected is to happen, an eventuality that at the moment no one deemed to be more than merely that.  I spoke with eloquence, my pride I could hear now, for who else could shoot this trouble down? who is the housing man? who could speak as if there is option when there really is none?

She knew I was talking to her friend about housing.  As if she's dead already.  My back to her was meant to be discreet, to spare her the embarrassment of eavesdropping on a concern that doesn't concern her, a plan about a future world in which she will play no part.  I meant to be a shield, to protect her from a vision without her.

"And there the poem ends," Christian Wiman said about his poem above. And then for three years he failed to continue after that colon.

once more I come to the edge of all I know
and believing nothing believe in this:

Yours, Alex