Spent all afternoon in a Presbyterian church with light slanting in through the tall,
tall windows and even brighter music woven from children hands and violins.
A memorial recital for a master violinist leaving us too soon, too soon.
Her mother trying to hold up what is broken within from her pew.
The sweet balm of a child’s song fell like soft palms
soothing all our losses; playing over all our descending to dust,
The Ash Grove.
Throughout the solo I thought about kneeling.
How we all kneel on our way sooner or later.
Grateful for my Catholic faith and the kneeling we practice in our brokenness.
Kneeling before Christ’s presence in the tabernacle before I turn into my pew.
Kneeling while praying to Him, before the altar, before the Consecration
and Eucharistic adoration, before the solitary silences in a darkening
or brightening room.
How I often kneel in my mind and heart to beauty wherever I find it:
a buckling of self to the enormity of God and all His creations.
How I kneel to hug my children or zip a coat or tie a shoe or
wrap them into me when they are hurt.
How I kneel to tending suffering.
How we kneel to death when it comes:
may it come as rich, full notes
swooping around high sanctuaries
like luminous cranes
through spilling light;
the coming footfalls of Christ.
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