The great timbered door stands ajar, its light brilliancing the hardwood floor: So unexpected, so frightening, an irritant to eyes accustomed to living within the grip of shadows.

I had glimpsed this light earlier in life; its empowerment had led me to receive my First Holy Communion, to enter the convent, and to enter marriage. Glimmers of this light also appeared in dreams and provided the next right word when sitting at my word processor. It also supported multiple knee surgeries and convalescences. My life, such as it was, unfolded in fits and starts, within consciousness of God’s presence.

Much has already changed during my eleven months of hospice care, with yet another invitation from the light in the offing. From my accustomed shadows near the door’s threshold, I squint and rub my eyes. Occasional spurts to explore this realm have faded into worn sneakers: useless, lethargy of the tried and true weighting my spirit. Besides, I’m no longer strong enough to open this door. I would need help.

So I wait, continuing my daily routine of self-care, now assisted by spirited helpers, themselves waiting in their own way for significant signs manifesting among us. Buoyancy, mirth, and pregnant silence fill my home. Before I know it, another day gives way to night’s dreams with their continuing direction.

I trust, in time, the great timbered door will open of its own accord. Unlike previous visitations of the light, I will remain—As will others.