I felt holy after she died.
What I mean to say is that I felt disemboweled, ripped open and gutted, my innards in a heap before me. I, Prometheus, chained to a rock, punished for stealing a daughter for nine months. Grief swept down as I was chained to the cliff, feasting on my liver, or perhaps more like my sanity and sense of justice, as I watched desperate. But still, in that torture, not because of it, I felt holy. Holier than before her death.
Lori, that second-to-last paragraph... that is just such perfection. It's all wonderful, but regardless of how anyone feels about God or religion of any flavour (or not), that idea - that love repairs a broken world - sigh. It's wonderfully provocative.
Thank you so much for sharing this moment with us. I've heard a voice like that too [blog author references hearing God's voice], and still am not sure what I'd call it - but that's okay. The important thing, I think, is being open to hearing it, no matter what its source.