Eight
I’M SITTING AT MY DESK, reviewing the resume of the applicant to be Saint Clare’s Director of Religious Education, when the doorbell rings.
I look at the time. 10 a.m.
Sitting back in the chair, I remember—I shouldn’t, but I do—when that sound at this time would cause my heart to skip a beat and butterflies to flutter in my stomach. I’d race Anna to the door to let in my visitor, the one person I’d drop everything to spend time with and go out of my way to see.
God forgive me, she still is. Briefly speaking to her outside after Mass reminded me just how much that’s true. And how painful this discipline we’ve adopted for forty days actually is.
It’s not even that I can’t hold her in my arms like I did when we danced to Hallelujah at The Belvedere. It’s not that I can’t smell the
