My friend called in the middle of the night to say the pain had returned.

The heartbreak that was supposed to be over had reared its head. And the dark, stubborn bearer of doubt and fear dropped his backpack on the couch, put the kettle on, and began stretching the minutes into hours. He unpacked his shovel to dig up all that had passed. Then got out the handcuffs and the Kleenex. It would be a long night.

What do we make of these times? How do we process the recurring sadness? The melancholia bred from the stress of unknowing? How do we cope with the paralyzing and the haunting - those darts and dragnets of uncertainty with which we are forced to cohabit?

“Everyone will be salted with fire,” promises Jesus in Sunday’s gospel. And as tempted as we are to avoid, medicate, sleep through, and sidestep all that is stinging, nagging, torturing, and debilitating, please, don’t.

If for only one reason, the darkness comes to do a bittersweet work in us. Like the pushups that bust our biceps but bring second looks at the beach. The fire salts us because there’s work to be done than cannot be done any other way. Easy Street is closed. Detour ahead. Remember the celestial value of what’s being bred in you, as the poet said; our faults are the most interesting parts of us.

Also remember that you are never alone. The Divine Presence is as invisible as it is utterly unable to leave. Yes, we’ve all been there. Some are there right now. So always keep in mind that the wrestling match you are having with your demons is not as confidential as you suspect. Others see. And we relate. Yep, we’re cheering for you. So draw on the energy above and beyond. And go ahead, inspire us.