desiderio domini.

He spoke some words to me as I watched the raindrops melt into one another on my muddled windshield.  I could hear the annoyance behind his words, but when I turned to look at him, I looked right through him.  He was someone I could talk to for hours and still at the end of it all feel as though I hadn't said anything at all.  Someone who can make you feel so lonely, even standing by your side, even holding you close, and staring into your eyes.  He was a labyrinth of accusation, and I was caught trying to find a way out. 

"What did you say?" I asked through choked tears; I was slowly unraveling.

With utmost cool, he shared with me his philosophies about life and how my perspective on how to live my own is severely handicapped by my propensity for negativity and by my faith.  What kind of God would allow himself to be murdered on a cross?  Seems too violent and gruesome to imagine, so why think about it?  If Christianity is all about death and resurrection, sin and forgiveness, then isn't life just a perpetual queue of waiting to be saved from your circumstance (however gruesome) rather than being in control of your own happiness?

"Are you happy?"
 Smugly, he replied, "Yes, of course.  I'm happy all the time." 

I don't care if you're Mickey Mouse or a fucking teletubby prancing on rolling hills of cocaine, nobody is happy all the time.  It's true that my personality errs on the darker side: when my peers in the sixth grade were busy writing reports about Christopher Columbus and bottle-nose dolphins, I chose to write about Emily Dickinson's haunting poetry and the Holocaust.  I am disappointed in films that don't kill off their protagonists.  My musical selections resemble dirges more than happy clappy pop hits (okay, so with exceptions).  But. . . was he right about me?  Do I condemn myself to unhappiness?   

There is an ancient story passed down through generations of Christians about the apostle Peter during the latter years of his life.  It was said that he wept whenever a cock would crow.  Of course, if you know Bible history, we understand why.  But it was also said that Peter often wept at other times, and no one quite knew the reason.  Finally one day, a young saint worked up enough courage to ask him about it. 
"Peter, why do you so often weep?" he inquired cautiously.
Peter turned to the young man, and with a look of intense yearning in his eyes, he replied softly, "desiderio Domini."
Translated from Latin into English, "desiderio Domini" means, "I dearly long to be with my Lord."

I came across this excerpt that answered the question that had so plagued me.  I realized that this life that we live is only a shadow of what's to come and likewise the emotions we feel.  If we all knew the beauty and perfection that God intended for us, and how far we've fallen from that, weeping would surely follow us all the days of our lives.  But the blindness of our human flesh limits our understanding to what we know -- temporal happiness or fleeting and inconsistent love.  I'm sure that Peter had a taste of that beautiful perfection, though he rejected it when he had the chance to keep it.  Maybe I am waiting, but not idly.  Maybe I know that happiness -- as welcome as it is -- does not wipe away my tears, neither future or present.  Maybe I am waiting for my real happy ending without settling to write a paltry version of my own. 

And to you who I speak of,
if you ever come upon my words, I'll remind you that you mentioned, "From this point on, everything you say is fair game," even if the writing is from the other side.