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When we boarded a bus in Quebec I spotted a place on the map I had visited as a child. I have never been back physically, and emotionally only once.

I allowed the memories to surface and recalled a young and brittle girl of 12.
My dad had packed us all onto his 25 foot cabin cruiser boat for two trips to Canada. The first time was for pleasure and the second a year later was for a purpose.

I was always keenly attuned to my mother's moods. My mom loved the water and was an excellent and strong swimmer. She loved traveling by boat. Until this particular trip. She was frightened and I knew it. My father rarely took his eyes off her and a few days into the trip, he resolutely turned the bow toward home.

Within a couple of days we were traveling again by car to the same destination: St. Anne De Beaupre Cathedral, Quebec, Ca. The importance of this trip was known only to a few adults, certainly not to me.

St. Anne De Beaupre is a Catholic saint to whom many miraculous healings are attributed. There are steps up to the door to the cathedral and tradition and faith suggest that to petition for a healing the faithful must kneel on each step to pray before entering the cathedral. My father assembled us on the bottom stairs and gave us our kneeling orders. My brother and I complied not knowing for what in this life or beyond we were supposed to be petitioning.

Once inside the cathedral we walked past crutches lining the walls in row upon row. Wooden and metal crutches were deposited by those who were granted healing. We walked past the innumerable crutches in silent awe bewildered as to why we were there.

When we finally got back out to the top of the stairs my brother and I stood together and in a rare moment of agreement discussed how boring and ridiculous this all seemed. I was 12 and he was 17.

Hearing us, my father sharply cut off our protests.
"This trip is for your mother," he said angrily under his breath. "You should be praying for her." With this he walked quickly away.

I studied my brother's face.
"What's wrong with Ma? She's sick, but is she THAT sick?!"
His puzzled face and deep shrug answered both my questions. He knew what I did. Nothing.

Within a year my mother died. She was in fact, that sick.

When she died I recalled vividly the trip and realized that my father's purpose had been to petition for her healing.

Today, five plus decades later,  I look out the window at a gathering storm and send a message back to that puzzled girl on the steps of the cathedral: don't be afraid. He has always been faithful. He has always blessed me, provided for me, led me, and loved me. She could not stay, but He has never left me.

I wipe my eyes dry, push the memories back where they belong and consider how the sky parallels my memories.

It is grey with patches of intense blue. It threatens.

My memories are intensely blue with patches of grey. They comfort.

The steps of a good a man are ordered by the Lord and He delights in his way. Ps 37:23