Hope is what sits by a window and waits for one more
dawn, despite the fact that there is not one ounce of
proof in tonight's black, black sky that it can possibly
come.
~ Joan Chittister in SCARRED BY STRUGGLE, TRANSFORMED BY HOPE
What if your dying is an angel? And what if your dying job, should you choose to accept it,
is to wrestle this angel of your dying instead of fighting it? ...Wrestling isn't what happens
to you. It is what you do. And you will not be alone in it...Living your way of life wrestles
the way life has of being itself: That is how meaning is made...That is what the news of your
death could mean: It could mean the beginning, unadorned, common, and singular, of your
one true life and its work...
Come to your death as an angel to wrestle instead of an executioner to fight or flee from and you turn your dying into a question instead of an edict: What shall my life mean? What shall my time of dying be for? What is it going be like, that cottage of darkness?
Come to your death as an angel to wrestle instead of an executioner to fight or flee from and you turn your dying into a question instead of an edict: What shall my life mean? What shall my time of dying be for? What is it going be like, that cottage of darkness?