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285 pages, Kindle Edition
First published April 17, 2025
But Ivy wondered, still–she had read of the star of Bethlehem, of the shepherds, the glory of God shining around them. Of Moses and the burning bush. Angels descending to earth. Extraordinary things have happened, on extraordinary days. But what of all the other days? she wondered. It was time that was the difficulty: plain, ordinary time with its toast forks and milk upset on the floor–Baby had just flung hers, in a great, dismissive gesture–this was when she needed transcendence the most, and yet it evaded her. What sort of God would choose to be absent? She wanted to ask Reverend Giles this question, again. She wanted, in fact, to run to a headland–they were miles from the real sea–and shout it into the horizon. But she knew she would not.
For her whole life, she would wonder how to describe the light. It was not like a torch beam or a lantern. It had neither the gentleness of fire nor the simple glow of electricity. It was a sound, as well as a light, and more than this: it was feeling, pressing and shifting, a pattern that moved and seemed to move her with it. Ivy would never be able to say, even to herself, what made this light so different from all those she had ever seen before. It was an animal, she would have said, if she knew of any animal that moved or looked anything like it. It was a creature from elsewhere, she felt, without asking herself what that meant. It was visiting. Or— She looked again, one long, last, greedy look, in which she felt that the light was a person, in some way, was love itself
But Ivy does not think of the future, now. She is only here, in the present, or the long, stretching country of the past. She thinks of certain days–Easter Sunday, in particular–over and over again, feeling her way along its hours like rooms she has lived in. She has learnt that she can occupy a day again, if she pleases, can move within it slowly, its walls sticky with time. She knows that certain images rise, floating, above the others. As she remembers, she marvels: at heaven from the window, at her whole laughable existence. Most of all: at the way a single day can unravel everything, like ribbon pulled from a present, the way it all opened in an instant.
Ivy closes her eyes: she sees now, more clearly than she ever has, that all time exists at once, no beginning or end to it. The eternal now, Mother Superior used to say. Eternity is right here with us. Now, still, though no longer a nun, Ivy can feel God so close: just at her elbow. How much she is forgiven, she knows: how much they are all forgiven, in the end. Her life flows around her, it lifts: the night Joseph died, the funeral, watching from the roof during the war, sitting in that small bedroom so many years later, a tear rolling down her cheek. It falls: a gramophone. A shining hallway. A pie with a bird. Her daughters: their faces at birth. Bear. Marina. Gilbert. Genevieve. Angus. Anne. And Frances, and Frances, and Frances–in so many moments, so many gifts of happiness. Ivy feels it all gather, gather, a wash of life, of grace and welcome. There is light, as mysterious as that which she glimpsed overhead, so many decades ago, still unknown to her. And there is love, above all: that which she saw in the darkness, and at the height of the sky. She moves towards it. She does not stop.