I sat alone in the small country church looking through the East window to the tree beyond. It was mid-morning and the light was turning to come in from the South. But some light still found its way through the East window. The glazing is thick and old, and the light dappled as it came through, inconsequential, not hard and bright, but soft and questioning, posing a question gently yet insistently.

I am here. Rest calm and just watch the changing light.

I did. A narrow beam fell on the snowy white of the altar cloth, as if to say: I am here.