A reader writes:
My dear Andrew:
Knots woke me early this morning, as they often do. Knots of worry about my children, knots of stress about work, knots of perseveration about decay and death.
The house was still. The bed was dark. Sheets were twisted, pillows clumped. My love slept beside me.
I read your Francis piece.
As I read, the pre-dawn light filtered through the bedroom curtains. A sense of peace filtered through my brow. Unknotted it.
You’re right. You don’t have to be a believer to recognize a moment of grace.
The Dish 