I am never alone. God supplies you in various disguises scattered through my day like an overlooked miracle: a saint’s face in an oil-slick puddle, say, or the dog who comes up to investigate and lingers an extra moment in communion, or someone stooping to put arms around a crying child. This is to counteract those mornings when to wake is to face broken glass in the mirror and the least touch shatters everything; when I recall how you’d roll over, say, “Hello, Beautiful,” smile, and lead me gently back from the bad-dream labyrinth into sunlight, hot sweet tea, and the next thing to do. Now I muscle through fog alone, on a different, meaner street, in an uglier time, and there’s a man who looks like he’s been shot out of a police siren and spent too many nights trying to find his way home. Hank always hangs around in front of Max’s Auto Detail — A CLEAN CAR IS A WELL-RUNNING CAR — lopes, half bent, as if to straighten fully would hurt, yet when I walk by with my red hair like a flag from a country called Abandoned Woman and forty years of disappointment showing on my face, he never fails to gallantly rise to the occasion and say, “Hello, Beautiful,” and sometimes, “I seen you in your car yesterday.” As if he knew I were missing some vital connection, something he could supply. In just such small, exact details, God matches our need for each other with our prayers for each other, to show us, if we pay attention, how the fabric of our long-lost love can stretch to cover all the world.