The most hum-drum, barely-mentioned miracle is this moment allowed. We neither wallow in times past nor scheme wishful futures, but stoop low towards our now, the rough wood of our present experience. In miracle mode, not much used, we allow its touch; it’s everything there is, this elusive slice of divine. Our past bread is stale, our future bread, unbaked. They haven’t even ordered the flour. Only here, in this blink of an eye, is fresh bread, we’ll not throw it away as quite without taste. And so it was …
