Shortly after her death, Mother Teresa appeared in a cinnamon bun in Nashville, Tennessee. She looked serious, perturbed even, as though this epiphany were an inconvenience. Once, in the nineties, when statues of the Virgin were crying all over Ireland, one in Donegal did not get the memo. A sign hung around its neck announcing: This Holy Mother Out of Order. I found myself, two years after Mom died, in the second pew from the front in a dark, empty chapel. I looked up at the six-foot-tall wooden Jesus, votive candles at his feet, and I could see a tear falling over and over down his right cheek, a trick of light and shadow — but somehow, in that moment, I knew they were for me, those tears.