Why do I find myself believing pain is more real than peace?
Why do I often feel that my strengths are artificial—illusion, deception—and my weaknesses authentic? On a good day, I am certain Christ is buoying me above the waves; on a bad day, I am certain He is beyond arm’s reach. Desolation penetrates me more deeply than does consolation. Objective truths—I am loved, my true self is truly good—suddenly seem to be subjective hogwash, the intoxicating smoke of a shaman’s pipe hovering over reality. Continue reading