I went up to the light of truth
as into a chariot,
and truth took me across canyons and ravines
and preserved me against waves smashing the cliffs.
She was my haven and my salvation
and left me in the arms of immortal life.
She went with me, soothed me, kept me from error.
She was and is the light of truth.

~ Song 38, Songs of Solomon

My children's 17-year-old cousin died in a car crash in Albuquerque Friday afternoon. He was returning home from a sports event. Changing lanes from left to right, his SUV clipped the back end of a city vehicle, slammed into a concrete wall, and he lost his young life. His cousin, also 17, in the front passenger seat survived, as did the other 17-year-old friend in the back seat. All honor students. All athletes. No drugs or alcohol involved. All with their lives, all of that brimming potential, everything, everything still ahead of them.

I had almost 30 nieces and nephews from my first marriage. I count this young man among them, even though I haven't seen him for several years because I'm no longer part of that familly. I loved him. I've known him since the day he was born. I remember he and his older brother tumbling over me like puppies when they were toddlers, giggling, and their mother scolding them.

This weekend has been spent consoling my two children, who can only say in the middle of the tears that their cousin was just here and now he's gone.

Gone.

Where?

I don't know. I can't tell them. And when I struggled to explain the inexplicable, they both reminded me that we are all sparks of the divine.

Pilgrims.

Sojourners.

Apparently they've been listening to me.

Such utter emptiness. I cannot imagine the agony of this young man's parents. No easy answers.

I don't buy the Sunday School explanation any more.

Yesterday, we painted the brand new bee hives with a coat of clean, bright white. Sat in the sunshine together. Decorated the front entryways with images of bees and flowers and horses. All painfully aware of who is missing.

I am struck by the warmth of the horses' breath in the mornings when I feed them. I want to wrap myself in the warm aliveness of their coats, but press my head against them instead and listen to their sighs.

I am surprised when I wake up to see the sunrise reflected back at me on the mesa, which is burning red. Where is this place? I ask myself. Where am I in this four-poster bed at 6:00 AM in my ranch house at the foot of the mountain exactly? I clutch the comforter, being washed downstream in a current too strong. Too strong for swimming to shore.

I fry bacon. I wash dishes. I almost resist the temptation to hold my own dear children in my arms and kiss them repeatedly, and tell them that we are safe and together at this moment.

This moment in time.