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For both Paul Mariani and Mark Jarman, the mystery is theological.

The remarkable, costly life of a secular saint

If, at the breakfast table,
I had not looked up just
as the red fox, burnished
coat glinting, trotted past,
white-tipped tail carried
like a flag, I would have
missed him. I would have
missed him if I’d slept late,
sneezed, or even blinked
which makes me think how
much I’ve missed because
of chance—if chance is what
it is—the life I might have
lived if I’d turned left instead
of right, responded no instead
of yes, walked through one
door, not the other. I’m not

As I wake in the morning, facing the risk
of viral air wafting in open spaces

such as the market, a gas station, or dog park,
I dare to linger at the rows of fat peaches,

in no haste to choose one with a gloved
finger, a paper mask filtering the aroma

of ripening fruit palmed in my right hand.
The daily hours slow to the rate of dough

rising in an oiled bowl, the floured wood
petitioning silently for another round

of dimpling and kneading, for sweet rolls
instead of sourdough. Praying for loved ones

“And the two recounted what had taken place on the way
and how he was made known to them in the breaking
of the bread.” —Luke 24:35

Each time we are called out of the car to face the sun,
after having spent time in the shade, we respond with a sound
offering—six or seven sneezes, our chorus of cacophony on a
bright day. It is, I’ve been told, a genetic confusion of signals—
these misfires making an announcement all their own. These
sneezes are mistakes, I’ve read. There are no impurities in the
nose to release and reject. The brain gets it all wrong. Maybe a
change in light intensity or over-sympathetic body parts?

In reality it’s pretty boring—and very important.

"More great than human, now, and more August, / New deified she from her fires does rise.” John Dryden wrote these optimistic words in 1666, in his poem Annus Mirabilis (The year of wonders). Only a poet of Dryden’s immense imagination could find a blessing in that year, when London was struck by both the Great Fire and the Great Plague, all amidst a naval war. As we close 2020, is it possible to find a similar hope amid the embers? Personally, I find some solace in the mysterious Sentinels of Aude Hérail Jäger, a French artist based in London.

Matt and Adam are joined by pastor Becca Messman to sort through the strange Christmas message of Love, Actually. 

Susanna Clarke weaves magic into her readers’ lives.