I let my poet’s eye fall on my neighbours’
doors as I walked with my dogs this morning. A gloriously carved oak door with
a wee peephole, a completely stained-glass door through which the shadows must
dance in colour in the eastern light, doors open to screens to allow the
rain-refreshed breeze, other doors closed tightly against street sounds and
passers-by.
Who are my neighbours? The lady with the
corgis, the dad who shares his love of cycling with his daughter tucking her
into in a bike trailer, the recently-widowed gardener with flowers hanging over
her fence. Their doorways offer a hint of their character, their hobbies, their
fears.
Friends in High River have lost their front
door. Water damage has shriveled and stained the friendly, bright red paint.
Who knows what will be salvageable?
Thank God for friendship, I say, and
generosity and compassion. Thank God for grief out loud. Thank God for the holy
call to be neighbours.
Blessings,
The Rev. Dr. Catherine Faith MacLean
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