These days, when I say the 5th verse of Psalm 143, it is difficult not to think of Liz as well as the God who brought us out of Egypt:
I remember the days that are past:Which, for some reason, brings me to this. I realized yesterday at Liz's graveside that when I meet people in the future who never knew Liz, I will feel something of the same thing I feel when I meet Catholics who are too young to have experienced the solemnity and almost preternatural spirituality of the pre-Vatican II Church. In both cases, there is something that simply cannot be conveyed in descriptive terms, something precious, ineffable, profoundly at odds with the spirit of the age.
I ponder all your works.
I muse on what your hand has wrought
and to you I stretch out my hands. (Psalm 143)