In the morning, when I awake, I hear my mother tell me to start my day with prayer. She is here guiding me, seeing me for the first time in true color and light. The reality of my days. All that she missed in the time we spent apart while I worked and plugged along in my existence, such as it has been.
She sees me, now, getting the kids ready for school. Packing lunches. Combing hair. Calling from the other room, “Did you brush your teeth? Get your backpack. Do you have your water bottle?”
She sees me, my thin sweater, blowing in the wind, as I fill my Jeep with gas. She sees me, cleaning house, petting the dog, crying on the couch after everyone has gone to bed.
For we have not followed cunningly devised fables, when we made known unto you the power and coming of our Lord Jesus Christ, but were eyewitnesses of his majesty. For he received from God the Father honor and glory, when there came such a voice to him from the excellent glory, This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased. And this voice which came from heaven we heard, when we were with him in the holy mount.”
Neither Scripture nor heaven is fable. Today, my sister and I both received the same message from our mother, Saint Barbara: Heaven is Glorious.
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