A reflection by Kim Steinberg The first time I see The Virgin Mary in the dim light of St. Mary’s chapel, seated in the second pew, I...

I don’t remember if it occurred days, weeks or months after my son Johnny’s sudden death in a car accident that my neighbor, a girl of only 23, walked over to my house to visit. She found me on my front porch, lying down on an outdoor sofa, tears smeared on my face, my body limp. Kayda had grown up with my older set of kids. As teens they got into a little bit of mischief together, but nonetheless, she was always welcome at our house. She still calls me “Mama Bronson.” 

Outside the camper, birds cry out, upset about the pending weather. Around here, lightning flashes and thunder booms without rain, but tonight's forecast calls for a downpour. I like to watch storms, feel the wild electric energy, smell the earth. I think of last January, when the ring tone snuck through my Do Not Disturb setting. Like the storm, you don't know the damage until it's over. The things that might have been.