Part of me died today. I sat and watched its final moments and knew I must be both executioner and victim. For when I realized that it must go, I bid it leave me -- gently I prayed. But gentleness was not a force strong enough. So with my own hand I tore it from me and nailed it to the cross I had been given when I first believed.
Grief engulfed me, threatening to extinguish my life. For this slain portion of me had been vibrant and life supporting, giving to me and receiving from me, love and care. I had nourished it and showered it with tender concern for many years. Its preciousness had grown until I loved it as my child. It became bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh. In my wildest dreams I had never imagined that this special portion of my being would have to be silenced. I thought that we would be companions all through life.
Now it was gone forever. I wept. I mourned. The world seemed a hostile place and I hated it for holding in its hands the events that sentenced part of me to death.
Finally my grief was spent. I knew that it was time to examine the substance of my life. With quivering hands I reached out to touch the gaping hole vacated by my crucified part. As I probed the depth of the void, knowledge flooded my being with light. With my spiritual eyes now open I saw that my dead part had been living at the very entrance of my soul and that its root system, ever expanding, had been consuming my soul. I remembered then, the times that I had given it priority over my soul life, telling myself that the two were one. Now I sensed my soul breathing freely again, relieved of the suffocating presence.
In thankfulness I fell to my knees, praising God who had hurt me that He might help me, torn me that He might heal me, slain me that He might raise me up to new Life. Praise His holy name.