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1 - Introduction
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In Story of a Soul, Saint Thèrése of Lisieux shares an encounter she had with God: I don't want to enter into detail here. There are certain things that lose their perfume as soon as they are exposed to the air; they are deep spiritual thoughts which cannot be expressed in human language without losing their intimate and heavenly meaning; they are similar to " . . . the white stone I will give to him who conquers, with a name written on the stone which no one KNOWS except HIM who reveals it." As Thèrése knows, speaking of encountering God is precarious. In writing this account of that meeting, I'm very aware that I risk at once aggrandizing myself and/or soliciting pity, both of which would be unfaithful to the radical experience of total dependence on God's deliverance that I underwent. This is why, for the last twenty-five years, I've tried to discern from God when and what God wants me to share, and with whom God wishes me to disclose the intimacy of those moments and with what words.
Even though I've narrated the events of the night of January 21, 1984, several times to a few receptive audiences over the years, I resisted writing the story down until now. It defied my abilities as a writer, and I found it too emotionally challenging. I prayed long and hard over whether the time was right to bring this account to a larger audience, and came to the conclusion that it was. I am older, more seasoned, and perhaps more skilled in knitting together the disparate emotions that have clustered around the many paradoxes contained in what I call "the event." I've also been able to frame the story within the larger context of my vocation, and that has helped me understand its continuing resonance for me and my relationship with God. I've come to see that this is no longer my story, but perhaps a tool from God with which to help others.
Into the Depths is divided into three parts. The first third narrates how I became a nun, some of the great challenges and blessings I found in taking my vows, and what precipitated my journey to Bolivia. The second third is given over to what happened that January night, and the days immediately following the accident. The final third of the book concerns the flood of emotions and negative thoughts that followed my return to the U.S. and that proved deeply threatening to my equanimity and the spiritual life I had chosen. Eventually, I found a language for what I was undergoing in the saving graces of the sources of my own Benedictine monastic tradition. I see these three parts as a triptych of the trials and moments of grace that form part of the larger story of the meaning of vocation, and of the way God is discerned in our lives.
In writing this book, I've been particularly concerned not to offer easy conclusions, full of platitudes about faith and healing, about the various epiphanies that I mention. While I believe my faith has deepened and I've grown as a spiritual practitioner, I am still a novice. I'm neither perfect, at peace, nor healed of the tendencies that have caused me and others distress. Indeed, I hope this book illustrates that our failures and blind spots are as instructive as the tremendum—the awe-inspiring and terrible beauty—that has revealed itself to me on several occasions. Both light and darkness show God's love for our falliability and our ceaseless dependency on our Creator.
It's also beyond the scope of this book to name all the paradoxes of faith, let alone attempt to try to resolve contradictions, like God's pattern of testing those our Lord most loves. I've come to believe that these apparent contradictions are a satisfying way to hold opposites together in the faith of God's mercy, recognizing that it would be untrue to my experiences to resolve tidily all that remains unknowable. Some things remain ineffable, excluded from our full understanding because, as St. Paul says, "we see in a mirror, dimly" (1 Corinthians 13:12).
Furthermore, efforts to resolve all questions neatly—as well as to assign blame or apportion guilt too easily—remove us from the heart of the mystery of our relationship with God. They allow us to turn away from our fear, vulnerability, and weakness. Suffice it to say that it's clear to me that I and others made terrible mistakes and errors of judgment that more than explain the suffering and loss that occurred that night, without recourse to theories about divine retribution for past sins or the supposed capriciousness of God. Indeed, my realization that speculation and analysis are futile has led me to what the mystics saw as an inner practice of "unknowing"—peeling away the layers of our supposed understandings of the divine until we are left with the radically simple proposition that as I am I, so God is God. It is in this space that I now choose to rest my heart.
Finally, it's vital that I acknowledge that, although this is my story, each of us has stories that need to be told and listened to. If I've learned anything in the course of my life, it's that we encounter God through our own personal experience, and that to ignore that experience is to ignore God. While God respects our autonomy, God wants to be up close and personal in this life as well as the next. As I've realized, however, this deep love and attention can be overwhelming. In the words of Hebrews 10:31, "it is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God."
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