There’s an old couple who goes to mass every week (that up there is not them, but you get the idea.) And stations of the cross too, it seems. I saw them this past Friday as my mom and I were walking to the soup kitchen. They were holding hands, he leaning slightly on her, she supporting him in all her smallness. I’ve never seen them not smiling at one another, except when they bow their heads to reflect on His sacrifice. Even then, when they fold their hands in prayer, it seems like they’re holding the others’ hand. For her hands belong to him and his to her and theirs to God.
He has the shakes…what do they call it? Parkinson’s. Wikipedia says Parkinson called it shaking palsy. It’s severe. Sometimes he rattles the pews. But he always gets up to go to communion. Sometimes she takes it for him in her hand, when he’s shaking too badly. But the priest always blesses him. I know God blesses him, and her, because such love as that can be God’s alone. Watching them walk there, between the cherry blossom trees, he with her and she with him, it was right. It was good.