My dear husband can, at times, be a puzzling gentleman. Perhaps you can relate to this statement. I present to you a case in point.
On the Solemnity of the Annunciation, he wished to celebrate the feast in a unique way. He conjured up the perplexing idea of having a picnic. That may sound fine to you, but we live in central Maine, near the Canadian tundra. Technically, spring had arrived. A peek out the window told a different story. Clouds shrouded the sky and temperatures were a chilly 45 degrees. Heavy mist hung over the lake, still covered with ice.
“Let’s have supper at the lake!” he declared.
Now that is a surprising announcement considering his dislike of cold weather. Still, I ( grudgingly) packed a simple meal in the wicker picnic basket and we drove off for our next adventure. Thus began a dreary hour in which I wrapped myself in a blanket and munched on sourdough bread. All was solitary until a majestic bald eagle soared overhead and swooped down on us in search of fish carcasses. My husband gasped in delight and tried to capture the moment on video.
Attention now shifted westerly to dense, low-lying fog that floated over the ice, undulating in patterns, drifting like ghosts. I was enraptured, but soon it was time to pack up and leave. We drove home in silence as I pondered how this wintry picnic celebrated the Annunciation. That night I got my answer.
At dawn I woke up with a start. Images of the mystical fog came to mind. Yes, white fog hovered like the finger of God, real as that Incarnate moment of the Annunciation and of Mary’s Magnificat.