By Andrea Lingle

“On the spiritual path, the Beloved asks only two things of us: that we love him and that we love each other.”
-St. Teresa of Avila, Interior Castle, p. 140

But Jesus answered him, “Let it be so now; for it is proper for us in this way to fulfill all righteousness.” Then he consented.
Matthew 3:15

It was deeply dark. It could have been hours or minutes ago that you climbed to the top of the stairs and pushed the door open to this room. Although it was heavy, the door swung open easily. The floor was lost to the gloom of the night, but the bare wood seemed dark and worn. The room was small, spare, and comforting. The furnishings, a tidy bed, a washstand and basin, a dresser, and a small, spindle-legged table with a candle burning in a pewter stick, were plain and carefully arranged. You crossed to the table. A small smile played around the corners of your eyes and mouth as you picked up the candle.  

Candles must be lit. 

Prepared. 

The bed did not squeak or protest as you settled onto the quilt. It was done in hundreds of two inch squares. It was hard to be sure in the candle light, but it seemed as if each square was a different shade of yellow. Some had little flowers, some polka dots, some stripes, and each were stitched around with tidy, even stitches. A work of diligent love.

On the wash stand was a brush, a cloth, and a cotton nightshirt: an invitation to wash and rest. You picked up the washcloth and noticed, in the corner, it had your initials embroidered on it along with the rose from the entryway. Grace, Love, and You. The water in the ewer was warm and scented with lavender. As it splashed against your face, the dust from the road gave way to a gentle glow. You scrub your face, at first slowly, then with rigor. Laughing, you bent and jerked your laces free of your boots and slid your feet out of them. The floorboards were smooth and cool, soothing your weariness. You rinsed the cloth in the water and sat, smiling, on the floor. First one foot, then the other, washing until they rung with the scrubbing. The warmth of the water was a luxury. Your tears flowed without effort or sorrow. This was to be loved to the bottoms of your feet.

The halo around the candle flame held your eyes as you pulled the quilt over your travel worn limbs. With a single breath, you blew it out. 

The darkness settled around you completely, tucking you into your bed like a hatchling into a nest. The darkness held you like love, like hope, like prayer. In the womb of night, your gentle sobs disturbed no one. 

To be loved and to love is to be exquisitely broken.