I once watched the sun come up in the olive grove of a Monastery in Assisi where in 1205, St. Francis became so quiet and still he could hear God whisper.
I have tiptoed across a dark courtyard at 2AM to spy on Greek Orthodox monks floating in black wool cassocks and high hats through a fragrant fog of amber incense. Chanting Vespers in the candlelit chapel of an Arizona oasis, voices carried to God on white smoke through a starry desert sky. My own soul seeming to rise closer to heaven on every note.
I have heard the haunting soprano voices of cloistered nuns rising from behind a screen in an ancient church on a hillside in Italy. Singing the sunrise into the day, bringing tears to my eyes for the beauty of it all.
Or in the face of my neighbor, who comes to my home to knock on my door, to take my face in her hands (still dirty from her abruptly abandoned gardening) to kiss my forehead and tell me she loves me before turning and heading back home to continue her planting.
Or once, when I became completely still and quiet so as not to wake the fevered child lying in my arms, mercifully sleeping, damp ringlets of her dark hair clinging to her flushed cheeks, her breathing calm and deep in the bed I share with her father. In that moment of clear, silent stillness, I too could hear God’s whisper, bringing tears to my eyes for the beauty of it all.
There is so much divinity in the everyday.