Thursday, June 27, 2013

June 27, 2013

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.


The Rev. Dr. Catherine Faith MacLean

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