During a recent text my cousin in Connecticut typed that her mom swore she had a bible from 1964 with my husbands name in it. Jack missing a bible? Unlikely, I replied. Bibles never held a position of importance in my husband’s life. Maybe it was another Jack? But she said her mom was certain that it had his name. His full name and an address.
The next day she texted a photo. Sure enough, that was Jack’s name. And his childhood address. In Michigan. She kindly sent us the book and yesterday Jack opened it. “I remember this…” he said before even opening the cover. He held it in his hands that split second it takes for memory to whirl you around and then deposit you back into the present. I was, in fact, his childhood missal. I’m not sure what he thought about as he held the book but he was definitely somewhere else and it seemed someplace pleasant.
The book itself is beautiful and I’d have remembered us having it. We don’t know, and may never know how in god’s name my husband’s Mass Missal from Michigan wound up in the hands of my cousin in Connecticut. But that’s what mystery and faith are about isn’t it.