Doorways in the Dusting
We raised with liturgy are used to the miraculous. We believe in virgin births, walking on water, resurrections of the dead.
It's the mundane Holiness we have a hard time with. I look for dragons and wardrobes that lead to untamed lands but fail to see the majesty and grace in ordinary time.
I can wait for wings of fire and hope for ghosts but the budding of a flower, brewing of coffee, wiping of rag over counter get dusted aside, polished away with spaghetti stains.
I am comfortable with conversations between stars and find no wonder in Titans. But a barefoot walk on sharp stones fails to prick me with the marvel of anatomy and the miracle of senses.
I need fresh eyes to see doorways in the dusting, lingering angels in the laundry. I look so hard for fairies I miss the cherubim in the vegetable garden.
All wardrobes lead to wonder to a willing and hungry heart. Lord, air out my cupboards. Let my spirit sing praises as the dust rises from shaken coats and shifted books.
The windows need cleaning.
They are clouded with glory.