So, I didn’t latch onto a holy word and go into space and, ethereal, lose touch with my body. But God, in those thirty slow minutes, you unfolded in me the bud of a fresh flower, with color and fragrance that was more than my soul was capable of, on its own.
. . . We all, with unveiled face, behold as in a mirror the glory of the Lord.
And when the peony showed up, I knew it as a kind of mirror. This was glory in pink and cream, with a smell of heaven. Petals like valves opening into the colors of my heart.
I saw myself kneeling on a grass border, my knees bruising the green, pressing my face into the face of this silken, just-opened bloom, and breathing it, wanting to drown in it. Wanting to grow in its reflected image.
Count on the faith that links us as we pray, about odd things in each other’s lives, nothing ruinous —a lost ring, an aching tooth. Even a request that we forget after a casual pledge: I’ll be sure to pray for you, words spoken as we chat at the store —they form a filament of gold, forged in heaven, that loops around us. Even careless phrases spoken through air hold firm, are heard, and may be answered. A cough that won’t give up, a missing check, a migraine that suspends us, waiting, held in the loop of prayer.