Isles of orange and black everywhere, black cats crossing my field of vision and plastic caldrons brewing imagined worlds of fear. Surely ghoulish creatures prowl the moonlit streets of our neighborhoods this week, so beware.
Except that I’m haunted by holiness more often than not (and more than anything else). A plunge in the pit of my stomach, chills racing up my spine, a subtle shudder alert me to a Presence unseen but sensed. I catch myself craning over my shoulder – looking for something nearby, someone stalking me as walk to the mailbox or pile groceries into the trunk or submerge cereal bowls into soapy suds at the end of the day. Holiness is on the loose – again.
A strain of chords, a clarion voice can raise hairs ever so slightly, pointing to a moment worthy of my attention. Listen to the song because holiness lurks, waiting in the wings to be noticed. Our love is not a victory march, it’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah or Every breath you take, every move you make, every bond you break, every step you take I’ll be watching you… or please read the letter that I wrote… I hear holy whispers between strums and betwixt words.
The glossy magazine’s covered with the celebrity family – perfect teeth, perfectly tussled hair, children of various colors and cultures in arms. I stand spellbound – not by the flawless ideal – but the haunting again. Adoption always nudges me to recognize redemption, to catch the hint of holiness beneath the airbrushed images.