Thea, life tramples death and hope beholds herself in an infinite mirror. Her alleluias echo up and down stairwells, and a chorus swells around and above and below her in harmony: All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all shall be very well.* Amen.
Thea, my older daughter was alarmed when every light went out. Darkness cloaked her, heavy and scratchy. I kindled a fire then, and the gale of light blew off her cloak. New light gave birth to new light and soon both of my daughters were twittering and dancing, delighted. Light of Christ. Light of Christ. Light of Christ. Thanks be to you, Thea. Amen.
Thea, I recounted Jesus' journey to Golgotha today, and then I lay on the floor, prostrate, arms outstretched. I was still for so long that my older daughter grew quiet. If Jesus' crucifixion was indeed a ransom for the sin of the world, then give me the strength to throw all my sins against the cross. Remind me that this is the day when we remember the unjust murder of a man and teach me to love and protect all the living with all my heart. Amen.
Thea, your son, on the night before he died, sealed a new covenant in bread and wine, his body and blood. Teach us to remember his covenant with you in the breaking of bread and the sharing of wine. Amen.
Thea, I tread the untrodden path and wonder with worry where I'm headed. Then I remember that you are with me and I trust the journey, step by step by step. Teach me to be mindful in the present moment and to shed the bulk of future concerns. Amen.
Thea, a baby in the womb is the song of its parents, a composition revealed movement by movement by you, o Holy Muse. Inspire expecting parents to look beyond mere expectations toward your untapped vision of what might be. Amen.