Every church in France is called Notre Dame — Our Lady — of something or other. Notre Dame de Paris doesn’t just represent the BVM to Parisians. The is truly their lady.

Their hearts were broken as they watched her delicate stone flèche tumble in flames.

I will never forget standing in the nave once when the sun broke through the clouds and illuminated one of the rose windows. I’m sure everyone who has been there is remembering it today.  We share the heartbreak.

Apparently, the rose windows were saved.

When Our Lady is restored and rises from the ashes, I think there should be a phoenix window as well. They’re saying perhaps in five years, so perhaps in my lifetime.

In San Mateo, I had a friend who’s life seemed much like mine.  We each had three girls.  We each stayed home with them while they were little.  We lived in the same neighborhood. We went to the same church. I learned much later that there the similarities ended.

I thought of her today when a doorknob fell off and I was looking for the right screws to reattach it.

When her husband was dying at a young age, she sadly told me that he was doing his early maintenance of all their doors.  He had a monthly plan whereby he tackled household chores according to a monthly rota.

It was March and he was doing the doors which he did not usually do until September. He knew he wouldn’t be there in September so he was getting everything done ahead of time.

I always thought he was a very sweet, kind man, but unfairly physically unattractive. She wasn’t much of a looker either.  They loved to go dancing.  They laughed a lot.  She said what she thought she would miss most was how they would talk for hours after they went to bed.

I am old now, and I have learned that we should not lament what might have been, remember the good stuff, and live with a heart full of gratitude for what is.  I know it sounds schmaltzy, but I really do have so much to be happy about.

Here endeth the lesson.