I’ve been thinking of the tiny airport prayer room where I prayed for my Aunt Mary shortly before she died. I’ve been thinking of all the places where I’ve sent my prayers, flying, up to God.
Have all these places made a mark? What is it about the little places which seem so forgettable that makes such an impression on me? The airport chapel. The bicycle shed at Lou and Jean’s. The hospital café. The tree beside the river. The kitchen pantry where I told someone I loved him for the first time.
All these little places seem so ordinary, but they leave an impression I can’t quite explain. But isn’t this, in many ways, the essence of our lives? Celebrating the small, daily things and finding the meaning that’s stuffed inside?
