Come to the Edge

That's the thing about timing. It has nothing to do with love.

All will be well. Seventeen years later, I knew her meaning. You will find the courage to walk through whatever life gives you.

God loves you just as you are. Pray from where you are.

Sin, in the Greek, means missing the mark. An archery term. That’s all it is. That which has kept you from God.

I did not know then that there are those you love no matter how much they hurt you, no matter how many years have passed since you felt them in the morning. I did not know how long it took to get over such a love, and that even when you did, when you loved again, you would always carry a sliver of it in your stitched-together heart. I did not know that you could love them in death, and that if one day they returned to you in a dream or half sleep, you might hold up your hand as she had done, because life and time had changed you.

No matter how many times you fall in love, it always comes at you sideways. It always catches you by surprise.

Sometimes it’s the place where you grew up that says, You belong to me. No matter how long I’ve been away, when I come back to New York City in a taxi over the Triborough Bridge and the afternoon sun shifts off the steel skyline and blinds me, I feel it. In the heavy July of privet tinged with sea salt on the East End of Long Island, where I spent nearly every summer until I was twenty and many since, I know it. And in an empty theater, with the ghost light on and the darkness, warm and velvet like a dinner jacket my father once wore, it’s mine.

What he aimed for, and succeeded some days in attaining was the remarkable equipoise of humility and confidence that is grace.

And in an empty theater, with the ghost light on and the darkness, warm and velvet like a dinner jacket my father once wore, it’s mine.

Come to the edge. We might fall. Come to the edge. It’s too high! COME TO THE EDGE! And they came, and he pushed, and they flew. —CHRISTOPHER LOGUE