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Perhaps there is no fiction. Perhaps the stories are how we tell the truth. The only way. And the dreams are the distillate of the waking hours.

The First Friday brings Nocturnal Adoration. The faithful sit quietly before the Consecrated Host, The Precious Body Of Our Lord, clothed, as it were, in the exquisite monstrance. The monstrance sits on the low altar.  And those who sit with Our Lord in the Form of Bread, contemplate, meditate, pray. Those who sit with Him at Four AM, sometimes fight back sleep, but always return to His Presence. This morning, Joseph brought just his Rosary and a prayer book containing the Memorare, which he had yet to memorize despite how many years.

Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to thy protection, implored  thy help, or sought thy intercession was left unaided.

Inspired by this confidence, I fly unto thee, O Virgin of virgins, my Mother to thee do I come, before thee I stand, sinful and sorrowful. O Mother of the Word Incarnate, despise not  my petitions, but in thy mercy, hear and answer me.    

There were souls in Purgatory to pray for. And those here with us, with burdens too grievous to bear alone.                                                                       

 

There were Mysteries to be contemplated, Sorrowful, Joyful, Glorious. And hopefully Fruits to be blessed with.  One day. Some day. Now there were the beads, the prayers., the thoughts which fly to God via Our Lady.

In The Name….. I believe,,,, Our Father….., Hail Mary, Hail Mary, Hail Mary.

….now and at the hour of our death.

 Lead all souls to Heaven, especially those in most need of Thy Mercy.

Hail Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy….

The hour wore on in the silent church. When it ended he knelt at the altar rail before The Precious Body of Our Lord, blessed himself (In the Name of….) and left, dipping  his fingers in the font, blessing himself again.

He returned to the empty bed, yet more silence. Even the birds weren’t awake. Or did he refuse to listen?

He put his head on the pillow. Her scent lingered still. Patchouli.  How much longer would it remain? How long had it been?

Marriage. Such a fancy word. Powerful. All enveloping. Every day until….  A shared life until that end, which came with her in that hospital bed the hospice people brought, along with the morphine or whatever it was.  Her fingers touched the beads of her Rosary as she drifted away. The priest, Father O’Hara, gave her Last Rites, and she was on the way.

Fourth Glorious Mystery, The Assumption,  The Fruit of this Mystery is the Grace of a Happy Death.

That day for him that never ended.

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