I’ve written before about the times I have witnessed the obscure glimmering through of grace, when I actually see something that was in plain sight; something I hadn’t seen before because I was too busy making up my own story that I believed was true. It was a glimmer of hope that not all is lost, that things aren’t what I’d thought or imagined. 

Another kind of glimmer is when I’m caught by something I read or overhear that seems to have a message just for me

I moved my red chair where I read in the morning.  It is across from the window, now.  A square of life right before me.  Not only can I watch all the dogs that come by, but the morning light floods in that window early.

The light of the sun and those glimmers of the grace filled light converged in the novel I’m reading, Mona’s Eyes. Young Mona’s grandfather promises to fill her mind’s eye with beauty that she will remember as she faces the threat of permanent blindness. The two seekers share weekly trips to contemplate one work of art, only one, to understand how artists speak about life and how they illuminate it.

Entering the museum with her grandfather, Mona has just left a visit with her doctor whose doubts about her sight left her somber. Her grandfather waits in the quiet for  her as she gazes expectantly at the painting of the day. When she expresses the unfairness of the fate of the paralyzed young girl that the painting portrays, Mona’s grandfather hears her lament and explains,

“Yes, but look, Mona, look at the ray of light falling on both figures.  It’s what Christians consider to be a moment of grace.  As if there were two kinds of light within the picture: the light of our universe, which renders things visible…and the light of another universe, unknown and superior.  For a Christian, the moment of grace is basically when this second light, divine in origin, breaks into the daylight of humans.”

Perhaps, that is what I encountered on a recent morning. I was just doing morning yoga in front of a collage of grace hanging above my couch. A version of those images have been on the wall for nearly ten years. They represent numinous encounters where I met both the Divine Presence and myself. 

I photographed and collected these images because of the story they represent and continue to hold: M with that pensive, longing gaze; W ’s creative spirit shining through whimsical poses; A’s imperfect hand arranged to say “I love you.” There’s a photo of Blue Mary and tin walls stuffed with prayers in a shed I came upon in the woods at the Monastery at Gethsemane. 

I framed the two shiny pennies: one that we found in the driveway the day we were moving from the US and one on the floor in the house we were moving to in Canada. You see, my mom told my children, days before she died, that whenever we saw a shiny penny to think of her. Those unexpected pennies have shown up over the years reminding us of her presence in our lives still, almost a looking after us kind of feeling,  blessing what we are up to at that moment. 

There are a few more photographs. One I took at dusk on a snowy evening, another by a Canadian photographer, and a friend’s picture of a huge oak tree that are reminders of awe and wonder in this world. Lingering still, I remember the grey bark of the sycamore tree in another photo that was a pivotal encounter with my inner ageist. These images hold stories that have deepened and been recreated over time, holding a piece of that deep centre where Spirit dwells alongside the click and clack of everyday.

Today, I read another facet of grace from Richard Wagamese’s book What Comes From Spirit: 

“Sitting in that indescribable moment within you, you realize that you weren’t looking for anything when Creator dropped something marvellous into your life… It keeps me in pure state of amazement of how when unknown gaps are suddenly filled by grace (me not having to do anything), how secretly and beautifully Creator existed in those gaps all along.”   

Creator existed in those gaps between then and now depicted in those images on my wall; moments of grace when God’s light breaks into the daylight of my own. All I have to do is rest in that state of amazement.