The nature of Glory is bound up in Mystery. But I remember, a couple of months ago, there was incredible rain and wind where I was. The rain broke up for a moment, and I was box-sick, so I went outside and walked in the suburban nightmare that surrounded me. Up to a levee that was there when I was a kid. From there, I could see Mount Diablo in the Western distance.

And I started to pray, after a fashion familiar to me. Which isn’t any ordinary prayer, but rather a kind of recitation of the names and orders of an ancient family that most of the humans have forsaken or forgotten.

And a terrible wind whipped up around me. I had to almost yell just to hear myself speak, and the wind was throwing my body around on my legs. The trees were bent and the water was frothy in the Delta.

Sitting here now, remembering this, I feel a glimmer of joy. And wonder.

And gratitude.

Whether or not there was Glory in all of that is a dead question. I just remember the feelings I had, which were surely better and more alive than any story could be. For a brief moment, I was with the storm, the winds, the water and the mountain. I had to stagger around just to keep my feet beneath me. And though I took my prayer seriously, I was smiling. Inside and out.