I could not, nor will I ever, be able to comprehend or imagine the voices, visions and dreams of my brother Joe. I had to nurture habits of listening to piece together something of his conscious and unconscious life. And I had to want to do it–the desire had to come first. That desire was fleeting but persistent. After thousands of hours and years of listening to him, I recall both exhaustion and sublime transformation. What I write about him took a great deal of effort, and I will never be satisfied with it.

My brother’s internal life belonged to him and no one else. It is the same for me and each one of us. What we make of the internal life of another, their thoughts, desires, intentions, ideas, and dreams seems to be up to us in many ways. In the beginning I was not comfortable with that when it came to Joe. How could I speak about him, tell others about him, if the meanings were fashioned by me?

But these meanings are not my own. I do not invent them. I choose to search for them. The search itself has pliable boundaries and rules threaded with qualities I feel and know. Faith and love are the best words I have to account for stuff of these rules. I love. Love requires faith. Faith requires truth. And when truth escapes my grasp, faith holds firm and will not turn back, even when I feel that it has left me. Love has no place to go. Faith resides and remains with love, underground if it must. But it will never retreat.

And I must push on.

Philosophers, and all of us, who deny the truth, deconstruct, play with ambiguity and uncertainty, or offer interpretations and dreams beyond our our knowledge, retain responsibility for what we say and do. Responsibility draped in love and rooted in faith. If there are starting points to what I am about to risk, these are what they are.

I return to Beauraing, to puzzles that intrigued me, puzzles about a bridge that seems out of place. Prayer, faith and some imagination keep my soul on this bridge and what it may mean for me, and perhaps for us all. I am on this bridge. I seem to live there. But the bridge is not a peaceful place. It is noisy, busy and surrounded with histories of violence and war. When I prayed at the Sanctuary I often wished it would go away. I would prefer transportation to the grotto in Lourdes, to quiet, to peaceful, spiritual serenity, but the rumble of cars and the noises of commerce, and the trains that passed at times, intruded on prayer in Beauraing. This town in the picturesque countryside of Belgium is not an inspiring locale, and I would not describe it as a beautiful place. It is common.