Glory.

Glory.

It hints of something else, something beyond our knowledge.

The weight of glory, pulling us back out of darkness.

Years ago, we bought a pot of flowers for friends of ours whose father was dying. My life felt unbalanced, shifting away from what control I felt like I had. Those flowers made me forget the rain against the pavement, splashing away the oily rainbows in the parking lot. They blocked out the cracked seat, the chill that crystallized my breath. Tiny sunbursts, spreading in a bundle of orange and yellow silk. They were concrete and true, but hinted of something else.

Glory.

But that little tear in the paper outline of our world didn’t last. The stem of a flower snapped, a sickening crack that pulled at the edges of my heart.

Silly, isn’t it? That something so small could fracture a person.

Years later, I sit at a table of stone, staring at the velvet of the Austrian valley rolled out before me. Silver leaves toss in the breeze, rolling and rustling. It’s a restful sound, a gently cupped sound that fills the world behind my closed eyelids.

I didn’t quite think I would make it through. The unsteadiness still exists in my life, but I can accept it instead of resent it. Most days. Trust was broken for me that day, when we learned that he had died. I had fully believed that he would be healed.

Yet life continues, and rips in the gray of reality show silver every day. They help us see the reason that we are.

Glory.