I am continually amazed at how deep the hole is that contains my grief. How naive can one soul be? Did I think this would be easy?

How funny, too, that Sundays are on one hand my favorite days, and on the other, my worst. Most Sundays I connect with the Divine, and those that love Him, and I should feel peace, but it seems that it is also the time when I’m most vulnerable to the sadness. So these recent Sundays are filled with love, with peace, and with great sadness as grief continues to work its way through my heart.

Today, I arrived at church early and went to the altar rail to say a “serious” prayer. The really serious ones need to be said right up front. I can’t explain it, but when you’re up at the altar rail nothing separates you from the cross and sometimes, it seems that I can truly feel His spirit working in and around me.

There were three or four other early birds there, meditating and praying. As I returned to my seat, I watched a lonely man wipe a tear from his face, all the while staring at his lap. I knew that I shouldn’t disturb him, even though I wanted to comfort him in some way. But then I realized that I didn’t want human touch at that moment either. I wanted God to reach through that stained glass window that I love so much, and hold his hand out for me to take, and tell me in no uncertain words that my husband was right there with Him, along with all my loved ones that have passed on — and that He was sorry, but I would just have to keep the faith and understand that they could not talk to me, but they were all fine.

And then, I heard the pastor say:

God’s Peace!