I dreamt, and in my dream an angel appeared to me, hovering just out of reach.
“Tell me about your world,” she said.
“Well, it’s a good world,” I said. “A wonderful place, actually, where healing can be found in even the deepest of our wounds…and yet…”
“And yet?”
“Yet it’s a painful and pain-filled world where scars appear on the souls of even the greatest of our saints.”
“Your world is a mystery!” said the angel.
“Yes.”
“But even your saints are failures?”
“They’re the ones most aware of their failings and the first to admit them. The rest of us claim we’re good even through we’re not. And our saints claim they aren’t good even though they are. We think of them as holy, but they see themselves only as unclean and in need of healing.”
“So your sickest spirits think they are well and your healthiest souls know they are sick?”
“I guess so.”
“You live in a puzzling world indeed!”
“Is there any hope for your world?”
I didn’t know what to say. “We hope there’s hope, but we’re not sure. This much we do know: any hope won’t come from within our world or from within our hearts because—“
“—even your saints have stains on their souls.”
“Yes. Even our saints.”
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