I have fallen into the habit of visiting my father at bedtime, helping him to bed, and praying with him. Often these prayers include the reading of a Psalm. He loves this, and I love it too. We always recite Psalm 23, both of us from memory, but sometimes I read other ones from the Psalter. Tonight as I was reading a particular Psalm to him, and came across mention of Moses, it suddenly occurred to me how utterly strange it is that there I am, standing at the bedside of a dying old man in the rural South, reading aloud a poem written, according to tradition, by a Hebrew king, that mentions a Hebrew prophet who led his people out of ancient Egypt. And these words from so long ago, and so far away, bring comfort and light to a frail Anglo-Saxon Christian man preparing for eternity, and who has known of Moses and David all his life.

It is a tremendous mystery. And a tremendous grace.