We all have our private griefs. I have mine and you have yours.  I think it’s highly unlikely that you will ever meet another human being who has none. That seems to be the nature of our existence in this life. If God had wanted it to be any other way, no doubt nothing would ever go wrong. There would be no sickness, or deprivation, or helpless parting from loved ones. We are students in a sometimes hard school.

But as we know, there are often compensations, and even consolations. And then, there are messages. They tell us that sorrow is not our permanent state.  And where there are messages, there are messengers. It can be so that by their mere presence they convey an important meaning: Sorrow is transient, peace and joy are not.

If you like, you can call these messengers angels, or you can say that meetings with them are fortunate deliveries of love notes from the eternal.

WHO IS THIS GUEST?

Who is the old man
Bent slow and stubborn
In a checked wool jacket
Creased, well-worn?

And he white haired
Line-faced and thin
Comes late to Mass
And hobbles in

Sits, leans forward
Makes the sign of the cross
As if to soak in
The rite which it blesses

Why is it then
My soul which ached with grief
Feels calm and soothed
With such sweet relief?

Just to see him
Frail and poorly dressed
Gaze so attentively toward Christ –
Who is this guest?