I sit in front of an icon of Christ the Bridegroom. In the reflection on the glass that covers the icon, my small son’s art project of the healing of the man born blind stares at me with eyes still muddy. My face, and Christ’s face, and the mud-eyed man’s face, shine in a circle. We are part of a quiet sect of hopers – you know it, too? You know Him, too? You know me, too? – who have ducked under cover like seeds about to burst up into the light. I see Him and him and me when I try to put a mystery into words. We are not alone. That line has been twisted into so many meanings of late: You…