The long light of autumn slips across my porch, spangles through the curtains and spatters over the family room floor and wall. It is November now, after many days of waiting. Though we waited for it, longing for cooler days, the light brings sadness for the strength of summer is no longer in its hands. It is the Old Light, the light that remembers, and I am profoundly moved.
     In Arizona, summer can be so strong as to cause forgetfulness. Winter clothes need to be aired by the expedient measure of draping them over the backs of chairs. The furnace grill must be hosed and scrubbed, the filter washed. Our puppy, Francis Clare, can't resist the hose and drenches herself while I work. So I grab a bar of soap, rub her down, shower her off and leave her running in the still-green grass to dry in what's left of the sunlight. She's had her first bath.
     Indoors I'm at loose ends. I dislike this time of year, this slant of light, this sorry waiting for the inevitable darkness. Over and over I must remind myself that "there is a light that has overcome the darkness." Yes, I have to pray my way into November.
     But it's a good lesson when I think of all the things I get myself into only to find I must pray, usually to be rescued. I don't need to be rescued from autumn, for it is a season rich with celebrations. Today we are remembering veterans. Tommy put our flag up, stretched beneath the porch eaves, clear and shining in the platinum light of the all-too-early afternoon. I can't help thinking I need to go into the chapel and get on my knees--something I owe God, perhaps, or just a sense that I must be avidly open and ready.
    Tommy's birthday is in three days. We will go to the restaurant for sandwhiches and salad, a rare night out these days. I worked on the car, cleaning and charging the battery, shaking dust out of the filters. It's due for a day at the shop, a good going-over for all the ordinary things cars tend to need about the time one makes the last payment. Katie stopped in and is looking well and happy. She's been seeing her doctor and has made decisions with good results. It's nice to know she is well. Marie and Ann are both working and going to school, very busy, but pretty sure they will stop by on Thanksgiving. Then it will be advent and the sweetest season of all begins; the wanting, the waiting, the hoping, the fulfillment of the infinite promise.
     Is my heart ready? So many simple things, tidied up and stored away. A great longing has grown all summer, like a new tree in the garden, still young, but promising both flower and fruit. Soon, soon enough we will go down to the church to be received by the Secular Franciscan Order. The date has been set: June 13, 2011. And as we wait, as we prepare, all things are gently removed from our hands. At least in heart and soul, we hope to go naked into His arms, and live.

     A cup of coffee would be nice about now; laughter, visits from friends. Perhaps I'm just reacting to my time in the hospital, the necessary ministrations of the surgeon, the ambivalent results, the plan to watch, wait, take care, keep healthy. Growing, I suppose, never ceases. I am eager for the distractions of the holidays, but even as I confess it, I'm pretty sure I will turn from it. Because there is someone out there with something more for me. This is the year of giving, and the exchange will be mutual. Two-way. Covenant.

     I can feel him waiting somewhere, out where the wind is blowiwng and the clouds are hurrying, where the desert speaks hymns of praise and the flowers of tomorrow dream of blooming...