My journal entries from yesterday end and begin with the same phrase—it’s a glorious fall morning. Today, the leaves shone scarlet and gold against a somber, nearly navy-blue sky. Clearly its Central Park’s peak weekend.
The rain set in a few minutes later.
It’s such a gentle drizzle, it won’t knock the leaves off the trees, I thought, just as my umbrella began to shake in a massive gust of wind.
We celebrated Mass in the cozy industrial-scaled kitchen of St. Joe’s. The rain had tapered off since the morning.
As we stood in a half-circle around the priest intoning words of institution, the rain roared back, dumping a short deluge in the concrete courtyard, visible, audible, and pungent through the open kitchen door.
The cloud burst lasted through the consecration, punctuating the ordinary miracle like Eucharist bells.