Any old day, Tuesday.

Begins with a strange dream: gunshots, my daughter, high-heeled shoes, and, most miraculously, Jesus standing in my cupboard.

Then the Pope dies. And he was a really good pope.

Then the steam cleaner can’t clean because his hose won’t reach, and my daughter is coughing, coughing, coughing, and I’m so stressed that I spill coffee in my blue paint, and running so late that I use it anyway.

And I can’t find my Nikes, another pair of shoes has green paint on the sole and is wet, and my go-to favorite painting and run-around Melbourne shoes have a hole in the toe. And I’m running, oh, just so late, and looking and feeling quite a lot like a crazy person, so that when I enter the shop and ask a shoe-seller if she has discounted shoes in my size she kind of looks scared, as if I have been let out from some kind of asylum or hospice.

And then I cook coconut rice and throw rubbish out and have a most magical yoga practice, chatting to a divine goddess at the front of the room. And my teacher is going to Italy, but only for ten days, and it makes me think more about Pope Francis, and Pope John Paul the 23^rd, whom I heard preach in the Vatican, and his children, running to hear, and I was running with them, and that’s when my salvation, slowly but surely, began.

The kids love my dinner, and my husband goes online and buys me a pair of shoes, and I’m so grateful for him, and for them, and for the Pope (reborn, obviously, relaxing with angels), and for this autumnal Thursday, and for Jesus (most welcome to come back in my cupboard, absolutely any time) and for God.

Amen.