The Pain of Motherly Love
To fulfill our spiritual calling and embody our truest human purpose, we must become pure conduits, selfless and transparent, serving as bridges between the singular, benevolent source of life and all of humanity. We are tasked with opening ourselves completely, without condition or reservation, so that divine light may flow through us, untainted by personal desire. Yet, I stand at the edge of this sacred duty, trembling, unable to trust myself to let everything pass through me faithfully. My fear is that my ego — insatiable and cunning — will seize it all, hoarding the light for itself. This fear paralyzes me, a heavy frost sealing shut the channels meant to carry life to others.
On one side, I feel the Creator’s urgent desire to pour forth boundless love and healing through me. On the other, I sense the aching, desperate vessels of others — souls crying out for the sustenance and restoration only the Creator can provide. I know I am meant to be the bridge, the passageway, the one who connects these two forces. But the weight of my own weakness crushes me. If I were to step into that role, the pleasures of divine bestowal would overwhelm me. I fear I would not resist their allure, that I would consume them for myself, betraying my purpose and those who depend on me. The clarity of what I must do — how I must exist, how I must serve — collides with the agonizing truth that I am not yet capable of fulfilling this role. I am chosen, yet I am unready. I am obliged, yet I falter.
This failure cuts deep, a searing wound born of love unfulfilled. It is the anguish of knowing I cannot yet love as I am meant to, cannot yet serve with the purity expected of me. My inadequacy ripples outward, causing harm and suffering to those who wait for the light I am too weak to deliver. This pain is not merely mine; it is a reflection of the Creator’s own suffering, a divine heartache akin to a devoted mother watching her sick child waste away, powerless to feed or heal them. In my heart, I feel this shared agony, this unbearable longing to bridge the gap between the Creator’s boundless love and the world’s desperate need. My own suffering intertwines with the Creator’s, multiplying my yearning, sharpening my need to become what I am meant to be.
This intolerable pain births a desperate prayer, a cry from the depths of my soul. I beg the Creator to help me, to strip away the ego that clings to me like a shadow, to free me from the self-serving impulses that block my path. I am not ready, not truly willing, yet the shame of my failure — knowing my weakness causes harm — forces this prayer from me. It is a plea to abandon everything tied to my ego, to surrender the comforts and justifications it offers. To answer this call, I must step into a void, a terrifying darkness where the familiar crutches of ego — its confidence, its fuel, its promises of reward — vanish. I do not want the reassurance of knowing where I am headed or what I will gain. Such knowledge would only feed the ego I seek to escape. Instead, I choose to close my eyes, to silence my mind and reason, and let the Creator guide me into an existence wholly unfamiliar, one defined not by self-interest but by selfless devotion to others.
In this surrender, I seek to become like the Creator, to align myself with His essence so that I may finally know and attain Him. My deepest desire is to be a vessel, a marionette of flesh and feeling, animated by the Creator’s will, moved by His perfect love. I long to embody and learn the delicate threads of pure, selfless, unconditional bestowal — to feel them course through me, to know them viscerally, as a mother knows the pulse of her child’s heartbeat.
Beyond this darkness, beyond the void that separates me from my ego’s grip, lie pleasures and fulfillments beyond imagination. But I cannot claim them for myself. I can only access them when I am certain — utterly certain — that I will not succumb to their pull. Like a reformed addict, I must approach these divine gifts with caution, ever vigilant, fearing the spark of old desires that could reignite and ruin my purpose. My role is not to hold or savor these pleasures but to let them flow through me, untouched, to those who need them. I must become like a heart, tirelessly pumping life-giving blood to the body, never keeping it for itself.
This is the pain of motherly love — a love that demands everything, a love that aches with the weight of its own imperfections, yet burns with the hope of becoming whole. It is a love that binds me to the Creator and to humanity, a love that drives me to surrender, to transform, to serve. In this pain, I find my purpose. In this love, I seek my redemption.