I once wept, looking at an x-ray of my foot. It’s a work of art, a bit mangled from a ski accident, but with a beauty in the mere flow of the lines of the bones, tendons and flesh. Remember gazing at an infant’s hand with the same wonder? What tiny fingers! What adorable rolls of fat! The tired faces on the train, the bravado on the sidewalk, the swollen ankle of an elderly lady limping to her pew are the same. Each one made with tenderness.

Today I got the MRI for my shoulder and delighted in the spray of white and gray on black, like some avant-garde artist’s photography.

God be praised for His beautiful work, for the miracle of life and breath and touch.

God be praised for the laughter of words like subacrômiodeltoideana and glenoumerais and espessamento. Every week brings new vocabulary. This will probably not be remembered, as it is of little use outside the doctor’s office.