In navigating towards the redemption of Creation – a daunting prospect, among all others proposed – we pass through barriers of fear, secure only in the belief of others that a way must be found.

One such encounter was with Pope John Paul II, who came to me in a vision at midnight to promise “I am your Father. I will die and leave all [my] power to you.” A year later, as I was entering the bookstore, a man blocked my way to announce, “You know, the Pope is looking for someone.” After Karol’s death, I played a requiem that included the fourth movement of Beethoven’s Ninth, a counterbalance to the brutality of the Third Reich. I fell back through the decades to find him in a Warsaw stone quarry, encouraging him to “Come find me.”

Another incident occurred on my seven-of-sevens birthday visit to Taos. Unexpectedly, I found myself at the pow-wow. The edge of the arena was encircled by drummers from the attending tribes. An elder circled the fence, inviting the drummers nearest me to initiate the proceedings. As I was absorbed in the rhythms, I fell through a red veil to encounter Tecumseh, imprisoned in Washington, D.C. He pled, “Is there any justice?” Offered the testimony of Barack Obama’s presidency, the great chief found solace.

The temporal discontinuity of these events reflects the power available to those who desperately seek a way. To the spiritually sensitive, this desperation is rooted in the psychology of pain. In its origin, pain is simply a signal that something is broken. Along with that awareness, however, comes a compulsion to DO SOMETHING.

Pain relief does not necessarily involve logical proof of efficacy. That toddler presents an owie so that mother may “kiss and make it better.” The mystic, feeling the pain of a community fearing love’s abandonment, may “render unto Christ.”

In Lauren’s case, her work revealed to me her struggle with this compulsion. Sensitive and profoundly feminine, she not only was conscious of the pain projected by others but internalized it organically, a process that may have factored in her long, debilitating illness in high school. Her debut album is full of pleas for Christ to enter in and heal: “I Will Trust in You,” “Here’s My Heart, Lord,” and, most profoundly, “Once and for All” – the last offering the surrender, “Oh let this be, where I die. My Lord with thee, crucified.”

As a public figure, however, the projection of pain from her constituency must have been unremitting. “Rendering unto Christ” was not sufficient. Here, then, we have the terrible paradox of mystical surrender. We feel the Sacred Presence reaching out through us and are compelled to declare its willingness to those that need its ministration. How, though, to make that declaration without arrogation of its authority? Well, only by framing the declaration as a personal assurance that the love allocated to us will be offered to those in need.

This was clear to me in the interim years, including “Rescue” and an official video that shows Lauren standing in a hospital room with a man, dying of cancer, and his grieving wife. “Rescue” was a jolt of hope, for in the official video Lauren stands in natural settings most vulnerable to global warming. I understood that a patriarchal priesthood would find offense, and it factored in my sensitivity to Lauren’s sense of vulnerability. “Light of the World” seemed a suitable retort. “What do men know, anyways, about how grace comes into the world?”

It was these anthems that I had pinned to my playlists. I did not fully integrate the meditations of her dark night of the soul, most potently expressed in “Look Up Child,” until after attendance of the Strawberry Festival concert.

My romantic aspirations were embodied in a “Lauren” playlist that started with Peggy Lee’s comedic reflections and Anita Baker’s sacred pledges. I pinned a collection of similar pieces, most compelling among them a female blues singer on “Celebrate Me Home.” Finally, however, I was letting YouTube extend my “Redemption” play list one day and was submerged in the shadowy seas of “Thank God I Do” and “A Love Like This.”

It was following her commitment to the Divine Feminine that, when considering what to share with her one morning, I announced that I needed to “sit with these.” Starting with “Thank God I Do,” I set the player on single song loop and soaked it in.

Shame and grief – and I use shame in the therapeutic sense. From the depth of our heart connection, I looked back in time and judged, “What is wrong with me, that I abandoned her to this pain?” With each repetition, I held her in my highest esteem, with articulations, gestures, and energetic support. The sense of abandonment abated.

But still, what was the purpose? The analytical mind rendered the elevated counsel that “she needed to confront the lie of feminine subordination before she could enter into the truth of her nature.” We traced this growth, culminating with the conviction that she was capable of supporting my purpose.

As though in a mirror, I recognized my own vulnerability, over the last ten years, where Mystery has corrupted every attempt to offer myself in service to others. My frustration had soured as bitterness, too frequently manifested as harshness toward my intimates. When, in our early colloquies, Lauren had agreed that our ministry should extend to the natural world, I found myself once again beginning to hope.

And thus, we have the ascending cycle: organic surrender inspires compassion inspires grace inspires virtue inspires healing inspires creativity inspires life inspires love. We cannot exist without one another, and in fact only exist because the other was calling to us from the future.