Down below ordinary line of sight, beneath a bridge in east Boston, mere inches above the high tide, is a spiderweb. Affixed to the corner of a bit of old decaying wood from what used to be some man-made edifice, the web glistens and hovers above the splashes of water surging in from the Atlantic or lapping up from the wake of duck tours' clockwork passing to and fro. A spider spun it, and it has served as a sticky, weaponized home for a good while -- a spiderweb takes time, after all, and requires an architect. It is an open question how many pairs of eyes, human or otherwise, have marked its existence, and how many of those have remembered it after the fact.
Bear this in mind: Whatever power keeps the universe in being, whoever or whatever it is that brought it here and keeps it here and propels it along in time towards somewhere new and different and unknown -- the very same evidently has the time, the care, the presence to attend to this single spiderweb of days' or at most weeks' duration, and to its architect, from start to finish, alone. This web and the frightful, dainty creature who spun it are the recipients of an incomprehensible and wholly unaccountable attention uncalled for, unasked for, and undeserved. While cars have barreled back and forth overhead, while heady humans have cut through the water in either direction, while the earth itself has spun around on its invisible axis in an unfathomable cosmic darkness, a half-dollar spider and its foot-long web have been held in the mystery of existence, have lived, for no apparent sake than their own. And perhaps they yet remain; though we know they will soon cease to be, a no less mysterious fact.
This is the grace of God.