Bowed head, eyes closed, in
prayer, in confession.
And there comes a hand on my left shoulder. Barely a hand.
Fingers. Fingertips. Just barely registering.
Eyes open, without turning my head a glance to the left, and
see the right hand of my neighbor. Not hers.
It matters not. Eyes close, confess. Confess.
But who is it? Whose hand is that?
It matters not. It is an angel. Return to prayer.
But is it really an angel? Could it dare be. Do I really
feel those fingertips. Is it just an illusion? A ghosting?
It matters not. Return to prayer. Confess.
Physical or spiritual. real or Real. It matters not. The
hand, the fingers, the fingertips of God rest on my shoulder. In this comfort,
I am invited to return to prayer, to confession.
Praise be to God, through whom
all blessings flow.