Some days I read Oswald, and I am immediately aware of the nearly 100 years that separate us. Other days, I feel as though my soul has been laid bare to him, and he is writing an intimate missive to me based on what he saw there. Today is one of the latter kind of days.
"The mystery of God is not in what is going to be, it is now; we look for it presently, in some cataclysmic event," Oswald. Somehow it is now -- on this very ordinary of mornings when I slept on the couch because my husband was snoring and I was already slightly mad at him when we went to bed, so the snoring felt like a personal insult; when the overcast sky supercharges the new spring green of the grass so that it beckons me, "come out, come out"; when I dread going to work where I have exposed too much of my messy innards and want to take it all back; when my youngest went to bed in tears because she wants to quit track and she heard us say she was just a big quitter; when kisses will not fix the pain of growing up and trying to figure out who you are and who you are not; when my menopausal body tells me it is 85 but the thermostats reads 65. The mystery of God is now. In this. In me. Somehow.
Nice to see you're back, Barb. Have a lovely day.
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