Ешь, молись, люби

Chapter 49

           WesaidgraceonlybeforeChristmasandThanksgivingdinnerandwenttochurchsporadically.MydadchosetostayhomeonSundaymornings,findinghisdevotionalpracticeinfarming.IsanginthechoirbecauseIlikedsinging;myprettysisterwastheangelintheChristmaspageant.Mymotherusedthechurchasaheadquartersfromwhichtoorganizegoodworksofvolunteerserviceforthecommunity.Buteveninthatchurch,Idon’tremembertherebeingalotoftalkingaboutGod.ThiswasNewEngland,afterall,andthewordGodtendstomakeYankeesnervous.

           Mysenseofhelplessnesswasoverwhelming.WhatIwantedtodowaspullsomemassiveemergencybrakeontheuniverse,likethebrakesI’dseenonthesubwaysduringourschooltriptoNewYorkCity.Iwantedtocallatimeout,todemandthateverybodyjustSTOPuntilIcouldunderstandeverything.IsupposethisurgetoforcetheentireuniversetostopinitstracksuntilIcouldgetagriponmyselfmighthavebeenthebeginningofwhatmydearfriendRichardfromTexascallsmy"controlissues."Ofcourse,myeffortsandworrywerefutile.ThecloserIwatchedtime,thefasteritspun,andthatsummerwentbysoquicklythatitmademyheadhurt,andattheendofeverydayIrememberthinking,"Anotheronegone,"andburstingintotears.

           Ihaveafriendfromhighschoolwhonowworkswiththementallyhandicapped,andhesayshisautisticpatientshaveaparticularlyheartbreakingawarenessoftime’spassage,asiftheynevergotthementalfilterthatallowstherestofustoforgetaboutmortalityeveryonceinawhileandjustlive.

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