I sat on the front porch tonight and the light was so bright in my face to the left I felt as though Mary was reaching her arms out to me. Warm and bright, blinding in it’s glow. The sun set slowly. John, Bella and I sat on the steps and watched the cars go by. I ate goldfish. I couldn’t stop. John turned on the twinkle lights in the bedroom even though the sun still had not set. The fan was on. Sleep came. I awoke feeling like days had gone by. It was an hour. I was confused, groggy and thirsty. The night had descended. Bella lay snuggly in her bed. John was next to me, awake, our shoulders touching.
Time is weird thing. So much of it moves slowly. Physical pain and anguish. Anger. Arguments. Bad lectures in college. Church as a child. The ride to the dentist.
And yet, it all moves so fast. Falling in and out of love. Watching our siblings grow. The moss on the trees climbing where once it never lived. One minute you are a girl, the next a woman. A decade passes, and then another and then another. You become more of yourself. You lose pieces you didn’t mean too. Things you wish you could get back-but are gone from you now.
But other things come, with time. More patience, more laughter. Stories, some embarrassing. Some fun to remember. Love. Real love. Heartache. Laugh lines and freckles and degrees and friends.
And all the while, Our Lady, in her bright and amber glow stays with us as the sun rises and falls. And the voices come on the church bells, much like St. Joan said. And mostly we just try to find the divine in the mundane. In the light. In the nap. And the loving shoulder press in your very own bed.
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