I fear suffering, yet it pursues me. My burdens are infinitesimal, ones that most people in the world would regard as nothing compared to their trials, and they would be right. But interior pain, caused by a conflict of self-love and a desire for sanctity, is my habitual companion.
I desire to embrace, to love suffering as the saints did, but lacked any degree of understanding of the nature of that love, until now. To love anything on earth, especially suffering itself, is to suffer. It will maim your pride, and crush you beyond anything you thought could be endured. It will hurl your dearest thoughts, plans-even possesions-into a maelstrom of bitter disappointment and obliterate them. What you cherished it seems to transform into a hollow mockery. You begin to wonder if you have done anything worthwhile.
If the advances of suffering are welcomed, though in tears, joy will come. It will force you to gaze outward, then above. First at your fellow men, then upon the Suffering Christ on the Cross.
(Note: I live a very happy life. But I am a melancholic, and redemptive suffering has filled my thoughts of late, giving me a fervent desire to write of it)
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