Last Saturday, my wife and I were sitting together talking. “I was thinking about my grandmother today. Do you remember how she used to laugh? Earlier today, I found myself recalling how she used to laugh. I loved hearing her laugh.” They seemed like innocent comments, the logical response to a moment of recollection that had unexpectedly invaded her consciousness. We shared a brief moment of recollection together, remembering the joyful spirit of her grandmother. Later that afternoon, she happened to share the same comments with her mother, and was met with silence. After a few moments, her mother replied, “You know that your grandmother died eight years ago today…” In the busyness of life, neither of us had remembered the significance of that day. But in that moment, both the day and the moment took on deeper significance. The Celtic tradition teaches that there are two dimensions of reality, the visible dimension of our ordinary experience and existence, and the spiritual dimension of the divine presence that is always present in and beyond our ordinary experience and existence. There are moments when those two dimensions of reality intersect and as Marcus Borg writes, “the boundary between the two levels becomes very soft, porous, permeable. Thin places are the places where the veil momentarily lifts, and we behold God, experience the one in whom we live, all around us and within us.”1 That day, that moment became a thin place where a grandmother’s laugh broke through and became a not so subtle reminder of the real divine presence. It made an ordinary moment in an ordinary day truly extraordinary. And, for the rest of the afternoon and evening, I found myself singing, with apologies to Neil Diamond, “Well she heard her laugh, now I’m a believer.”