Sadness

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From Shunned (2018)

  As she came through the revolving mahogany door, I saw that she was dressed impeccably, in white pants, a black-and-white-striped sweater, pearls at her neck, and white sandals. She squinted as her eyes adjusted to the light until she saw me standing, waving her to our table. She smiled stiffly, revealing only her bottom teeth. Her walk was unnatural and labored. Emily Post doesn’t cover the rules of engagement for greeting estranged relatives, and I was unclear on how to receive my mother. A handshake seemed absurd and distant. Would a hug feel contrived? If she didn’t want to visit me in my home, what other boundaries did she have? But I wanted to hug her and was glad when she reached our table, set down her purse, and extended her arms. At five foot eight, I towered over my mom’s petite frame. Our embrace was swift and awkward. She moved like a cat that allows itself to be picked up, then quickly wriggles to get free. “You look beautiful, Mother.” It seemed like the right place to start. She had more gray hair than I remembered, and her eyes turned down at the corners in an unfamiliar way. Was she weary from the journey, or was this grief? I pulled out her chair and gestured for the waitress to bring coffee. “You look good, too, my dear,” she said. “I see you’ve managed to stay slim.” She took her first sip of coffee. “This looks like a fun street. Is this far from where you live?” “This is my neighborhood. My brownstone is only six blocks away. I just love it here. There is a nice mix of families and single people my age. It’s about equal parts people who’ve lived here their whole life and transplants like me. We’re only eight blocks from Wrigley Field, so this place gets crazy on game days.” I was babbling and couldn’t seem to stop myself. “I love the hustle-bustle of this street, and yet, just one block over in either direction, are tree-lined, quiet residential streets. All of these restaurants are regular haunts of mine. The Music Box Theatre shows great, artsy movies. I can walk to the grocery store, and we’re a five-minute bike ride to the lakefront.” “You sound like a tour guide,” Mom said, “but you’ve always been a city girl at heart.” As she lifted the menu, I noticed her hands had not changed. Her nails were short, unpolished, and clean, yet they had the dry toughness of long summer hours tending to her roses. The waitress brought fresh bread and took our order. I served myself, and as the butter melted in my mouth, I realized how hungry and hollow I felt. I’d been up for hours and had been too stirred up to eat. “I feel very at home here,” I continued. “The great thing about Chicago is the range.

• From Shunned (2018)

  Soon we entered a suburban sprawl that was new to me, large housing developments stretched out over acres where we used to pick strawberries in the summer. Lory turned the car into one of these developments, winding through a series of tract houses, and parked in front of a one-level ranch-style house. “Here we are,” Mom said from the backseat. “When we go in, I’ll get an update from the hospice nurse, and then we’ll sit with Grandma a bit.” Grandma T.’s small room was gobbled up by the hospital bed that dominated one corner. The bed was perched up, and Grandma was lying there, eyes not quite open and not quite shut, eyelids thin, with barely a trace of lashes. The full reality of her impending death hit me as I observed Mom coaxing this once lively and self-possessed woman to take a few sips of water through a curled plastic straw. “Look who’s here to see you, Grandma. It’s Lindy.” I pulled a chair up to her bedside, sat down, and slipped both arms through the frigid metal railings, taking hold of her cool, knobby hands. Her blank expression did not change. I believe she was drawing inward, resting between the dimensions, pulling together the energy she needed to pass over into another world. I was raised to believe that death is a state of nonexistence, no consciousness, living only in Jehovah’s memory, until some far-off time when he resurrects people back to physical form in the New World. But I didn’t believe that anymore. Deeply saddened as I contemplated the months of pain and suffering leading to her death, I was comforted to think the universe would never be without the essence of Grandma T.’s kind soul, and that soon she would be released from the confines of corporeal form, free to grace us all again from benevolent realms. Soon it was time to leave, so I said my last goodbye and we headed back down the dark corridor, through the foyer, dodging raindrops as we dashed toward the car. All three of us were quiet for a while, in a reflective, respectful way, but I don’t think any of us was overcome with grief or emotion. I was grateful to see Grandma one last time, feeling the melancholy and mystery of the situation. I guessed Lory and Mom would feel some relief upon her death; in their view, it would open the way for her to potentially be resurrected into the New System on a perfect physical earth, if that was Jehovah’s will for her soul. [image "Images" file=Image00000.jpg] The windshield wipers kept the beat as we drove past my old high school and Lory updated me on her life. She and Ove continued to work together on his home construction business while she pursued her real estate license. They did not have children, so she was free to remain very active in preaching work. Ove’s position as a congregation elder also kept him busy.

• From Vision Quest (1979)

  Cindy talked some about skiing and her job with an ad agency and about the movies and books she likes. She likes Jesus Christ Superstar , too, but she said she couldn’t understand why I’d seen it eleven times, especially since I’m not even a believer. I told her it was food for my soul. “Your soul?” she said. “It can’t live on the promise of milk and honey alone,” I said and gave her a hungry-cherub grin as my stomach growled mightily, interrupting Miracle on 34th Street , which we’d been half watching. “That’s not your soul,” Cindy said, smiling. The ad agency Cindy works for has done business with Dad for a long time. I remembered that the name on the inside covers of those books on Dad’s nightstand is C. Callus—Cindy. And I wondered how long Dad’d been seeing her. And then as we sat in the soft candlelight with the snow shining in through the window and the Christmas-tree smell fresh in the air and a miracle having only shortly transpired on TV, I got to thinking about Mom and being lonesome for her and wondering what new dishes she got herself for Christmas. But later, just as I was about to call her, she called me. And though she said she missed me, she sounded real happy, too. Her stepkids were yelling and screaming and having a good time in the background. I thanked her for the heavy-duty suspenders and she thanked me for the new tapes for her fat-assed Buick. It continues to amaze me that Carla doesn’t get homesick for her parents. She contends they’re assholes, and they must be if she doesn’t miss them at Christmas. Maybe she’s just made up her mind not to. I let my spirits get a little low on the way up to the park to meet Kuch and run our three. I guess I haven’t really gotten over feeling a little weird about Mom and Dad. Stupid as it is, I kind of wish marriages would last forever. Actually, I sometimes wish everything would last forever. This is a wish I fight hard but am not always able to defeat. Really, I’m proud of Mom and Dad for having the strength to fight for big-time happiness after twenty years of something that must not have been enough. Christ, it must take guts to break up at the age of fifty, then go right out and find somebody new to love better. I get about half choked up just throwing away my sweat clothes at the end of the season. I’ve poured out so much of my life in them. I’d probably save them if they weren’t so smelly and disintegrated. The end of the year is just a bad time for me anyway. I get used to thinking about Time moving and I have to fight hard not to be depressed.

• From Shunned (2018)

  There was no quibbling over who got what table or painting or loan to pay off; I’d already given thought to the list, and it seemed like Ross had, too. When it was done, Ross mixed us both a drink and we ordered a pizza. It was Saturday night, and neither of us had anything else to do but hang out with each other. Curled up in sweatpants on separate ends of the couch, we sipped our drinks and stared holes in the carpet. “I’ll call Jerry and request a meeting tomorrow,” Ross said, getting up from the couch. “It’s important to me that the elders hear this from us first.” I agreed. It felt like the honorable thing to do, and I had nothing to lose. Ross would finally get me to meet with the elders, but now the terms were acceptable. I’d made my decision and had no fears of being dissuaded. The next day, Ross got behind the wheel of the repaired Honda without saying a word. I took the passenger seat, and we rode in silence toward the Kingdom Hall, taking the usual route down Butner Road. As we waited at the stop sign, my eyes came to rest on the guardrail he’d crashed into a few weeks earlier. It was stable and steady, peppered with the black rubber marks of many close calls. I squeezed the door handle a little more tightly. This is the last time we’ll ever go the Hall together —a sobering thought that beckoned an unexpected melancholy. So many parts of my life were about to end. Ross turned the Honda toward the Kingdom Hall and parked next to Jerry’s Taurus. I wasn’t expecting to see the second car, which I recognized as Vince Lloyd’s. Jerry must have asked him to join us. Ross hadn’t been expecting anyone else, or, if he had, he hadn’t mentioned it. The door was unlocked, but the Hall was dark and hollow, except for light emanating from a smaller meeting room in the rear of the building. There, we found both men. Jerry was setting four chairs in a circle. Diminutive in height and round in girth, he bounced around like a ball. Every part of him was round: his head, his cheeks, eyes like coins behind round wire glasses, waist spilling over either side of his belt. This gave him a jolly persona, rolling along with no sharp edges to harm whatever or whomever he came in contact with. Vince was plugging in a space heater to take the chill off. He was long-limbed and frail, pushing his wire-frame glasses up the rim of his nose as he stood. It was midafternoon, and they were still wearing suits and ties from the morning services. Ross had gone to the morning meeting without me and still had on his suit pants and dress shirt, jacket and tie now discarded.

• From Shunned (2018)

  Each table had a delicate vase of fresh pink and yellow freesia. The waiters were always friendly and never looked down their nose if you mispronounced l’agneau grillé, niçoise, or confit. The yeasty aroma of fresh croissants greeted me as I walked through the entrance. The black-and-white tile floors and mahogany bar warmed the room. It was tidy and charming. Mom would like that. I arrived early and claimed a corner table just inside the open door so I could see the cab delivering my mother. The moment the car stopped in front, I could make out my mom’s silhouette through the car window, wavy hair barely gracing her narrow shoulders. A bittersweet pain clutched at my heart. She got out of the cab and stepped on to the curb. Dusting herself off, she turned to size up the entrance, securing her purse tight under her arm, like a shield. As she came through the revolving mahogany door, I saw that she was dressed impeccably, in white pants, a black- and-white-striped sweater, pearls at her neck, and white sandals. She squinted as her eyes adjusted to the light until she saw me standing, waving her to our table. She smiled stiffly, revealing only her bottom teeth. Her walk was unnatural and labored. Emily Post doesn’t cover the rules of engagement for greeting estranged relatives, and I was unclear on how to receive my mother. A handshake seemed absurd and distant. Would a hug feel contrived? If she didn’t want to visit me in my home, what other boundaries did she have? But I wanted to hug her and was glad when she reached our table, set down her purse, and extended her arms. At five foot eight, I towered over my mom’s petite frame. Our embrace was swift and awkward. She moved like a cat that allows itself to be picked up, then quickly wriggles to get free. “You look beautiful, Mother.” It seemed like the right place to start. She had more gray hair than I remembered, and her eyes turned down at the corners in an unfamiliar way. Was she weary from the journey, or was this grief? I pulled out her chair and gestured for the waitress to bring coffee. “You look good, too, my dear,” she said. “I see you’ve managed to stay slim.” She took her first sip of coffee. “This looks like a fun street. Is this far from where you live?” “This is my neighborhood. My brownstone is only six blocks away. I just love it here. There is a nice mix of families and single people my age.

• From Shunned (2018)

  It seemed our conversation at the funeral home was all his conscience would allow. Other members of the family could set aside the rules for one day; Randy could manage only ten minutes. Or maybe he found the whole thing too emotionally confounding to confront. This was not a family reunion but a concession for mourning. Mom returned from the back room empty-handed and collapsed in the chair, her urge to reminisce waning. Bob looked at me and raised both brows, as if to say, Enough. I entertained the idea of speaking up about the absurdity of the situation. Is this how it will be for the rest of our lives: seeing each other only when someone dies? How many years would pass before I’d receive another phone call reporting a terminal diagnosis or the need for a deathbed rendezvous? But speaking up felt pointless. It might satisfy some opaque longing to vent, but I could do that on my own time. Truer still, I’d held it together all day, somehow managing to rise to the occasion, and I was afraid pushing past this cordial veil would result in my having an emotional breakdown, tears squirting from my eyes, unable to breathe or speak. To indulge myself felt too extravagant, too risky. I had too much pride to let that happen. In retrospect, it might have been good to let it all out, the sadness and anger, my despair on full display. But I feared it could be misinterpreted as unhappiness or a sign of repentance. Sure, I had regrets, but they were not of a confessional nature. “It’s time to say goodbye,” Bob said. “Our day started at four this morning, and you’ve all had a series of long days, we know. I’m sure we could all use some rest.” Everyone stood. Mom, Dad, Lory, and Ove gathered around me in a semicircle, with Bob off to one side. First, I hugged my sister. “Goodbye, Lory,” I said. “It’s nice to see you looking so well.” She hugged me back. “You too,” she said. Next I hugged Ove, briefly and with little intensity. “Thanks, Ove, for taking such good care of my sister,” I said. “You’re welcome,” he said. Mom was next. We wrapped our arms around each other and held each other gently, her head resting on my shoulder. “It was good to see you, Mom.” We rocked each other. “Yes, Lindy, we loved seeing you, too,” she answered. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that Randy, Marlene, and Tyler had emerged from the dining room and were watching us. Bob was following behind me, saying his own goodbyes. “I wish we could see you all more often,” I said. “Yes, Lindy,” Mom said, still holding me. “We’d like that, too.

• From Shunned (2018)

  In this way, they assure themselves it’s not the system that’s flawed—it’s you! I didn’t know the answer to her question and shrugged it aside. I had no idea who I was or who I was becoming. I felt like I was living someone else’s life, floating through a dream. The only thing I knew for sure was that I had everything I needed to live well that day, and that had to be enough. Out of the courtesy she ingrained in me, I offered to make her a sandwich. To my relief, she declined, hugged me goodbye, and left. Word of my defection traveled through the community, and as it did, people called Mom or Lory. They passed along my new home number and encouraged people to express their concern to me directly. After a full day at the office, I’d return home every night to many phone messages, all from people I shared a history of service with and considered my friends. Most were well intended and supportive. “Linda, my heart goes out to you, and I hope you will call me if there is anything I can do,” said one sister I’d pioneered with a decade earlier. “Don’t forget Jehovah,” said another. The elder who’d said the opening prayer at our wedding called to say he and his wife were heartbroken to hear Ross and I had split. “We’re here if you need us.” As I listened to each message, I wrote the name and number of the caller down on a tablet by the phone. One night there were eight messages from concerned Witnesses. Soon there were pages filled with names and phone numbers. There were too many calls to return. Just the idea of it made me feel bone-tired and defeated. [image "Images" file=Image00000.jpg] It was a good time to focus my energy on my career, especially since it was funding my new adventures and was my only source of income. In just two years, our work team had grown to ten people. A familial bond, born of mutual respect and shared success, had developed among us. As my job shifted to include more business development, I started making joint sales calls with Geoff Singer, a man from another division of the bank. Our services were complementary, so we agreed to leverage our connections by forming an alliance and calling on prospective banking clients together. There was a kinship between us from the very beginning. Our first challenge was to travel to Los Angeles, where I would introduce him to one of my best clients and convince her to promote his credit card products alongside the consumer loans my group provided. Geoff and I walked out of the meeting with her verbal commitment and celebrated with lunch at my favorite restaurant in Pasadena. “I hope you don’t mind my asking,” Geoff said, “but what formal sales training have you had?” “None.” “None whatsoever?” He squinted and cocked his head.

• From Shunned (2018)

  We both took a second to collect ourselves. Like most of the men in the room, he was wearing a suit and tie. His black hair was gray at the temples. Where do we start after twelve years with no communication? My thinking was muddled. I hugged Marlene and shook Tyler’s hand. He was the same age as my stepson, Will. The blond hair of his childhood had darkened to a sandy tone; he wore it in the same conservative style as my brother, cut short and parted down one side. “You’ve grown up, Tyler,” I said. “I don’t really remember you,” Tyler said, not unkindly but with the refreshing honesty of youth. It was a difficult thing to hear. The sad truth is, I had no relationship with my brother’s youngest child. “Of course you wouldn’t,” I said. “The last time I saw you, you were barely five years old. And now you’re a teenager.” “Yeah,” Randy said, now with a sarcastic grin on his face. “And what a joy it is to have teenagers, right, especially when they’re old enough to drive?” Asking after Sheena, I learned she was feeling the weight of her pregnancy and having mini-contractions. She was home obeying doctors’ orders to avoid crowds and stay off her feet. “We’re going to check on her after this,” Tyler said. “She lives about a half hour from here.” The crowd had thinned here, near the front. We had not moved from our rows of seats. Most people had gathered in back, near the fireplace and seating area. A rotating crowd gathered to watch the looping slide show of Grandma’s life, having ordinary and congenial conversation, but eventually we all stood mute, looking at one another. “Shall we join everyone else?” Bob asked, raising one arm in that direction. Everyone nodded and disbanded as we made our way back down the center aisle. I was reluctant to leave my brother, but I expected we would have plenty of time to visit at dinner. Everything hinged on dinner. It would be for immediate family only. Mom explained that bringing all the aunts, uncles, and cousins together would require renting a large room at a restaurant, and no one had the wallet or energy for that. Now that I knew everyone in my immediate family was speaking to me, at least for that day, I was looking forward to going to Mom and Dad’s house for dinner. Sipping syrupy pink punch from a paper cup, I carried on introducing Bob to my relatives. My intention was to stay long enough to be polite and say hello to all of these distant relatives I hadn’t seen in years. Occasionally one of the “good friends of the family” stood at a distance and smiled at me but rebuffed my attempts to engage in conversation. Others walked past without acknowledging me.

• From Shunned (2018)

  They actually do fun, interesting activities as a lifestyle, not just for special occasions.” “Sure, I get tired, but then we take a break like today, and, bam, I’m ready to go again. I’m actually looking forward to the meeting tomorrow. Brian Halvorson is coming to give the talk, remember? Maybe we can take him and Joanie to lunch afterward.” “Okay,” I said. Our friendship with Brian and Joanie went back more than ten years, before any of us was married. They were always easy and fun to be with, but a lethargy came over me at the thought of getting up to an alarm clock. “You know, Lindy, sometimes I worry about you.” “Really? Why?” “Well, you just aren’t the same old Linda. You work a lot and you’re tired all the time. You’re missing a lot of meetings. When you do go, you haven’t previewed the lessons. You rarely raise your hand to participate. That’s not the enthusiastic Linda I married. Remember that twenty-year-old pioneer who was putting in ninety hours per month in the service while she held down a part-time job?” “Give me a break, I haven’t changed that much.” By this time, we had reached a stretch of road that ran right along the edge of the lake. A breeze came up and challenged our pace. “Sure you have. Last Thursday you got home from work just as I was leaving for the Hall, and decided to stay home. The old Linda would have just hopped in the car and joined me.” “I was tired.” “Tired? When has that ever stopped you? You have more energy than most people I know. If your heart is into something, you can go and go.” “You exaggerate.” “Do I?” Ross continued. “Remember the old days when we started street work in downtown Portland at seven o’clock in the morning? We would stay out in field service all day, stop for dinner, then make a few return visits. Heck, sometimes we’d even go see a late movie.” “Ross, that was over eight years ago—we were in our early twenties.” Everything he said was true. I was struck by a depressing realization, not necessarily the one he intended. I’d spent my life in honorable mediocrity, a grind, a landscape where service and routine dominated. Yes, I’d enjoyed many fun moments, but they were just thin strips of clay eking out space between the boulders of obligation and seeking to please others. Where was the bliss, the pleasure, of living? “No, Linda, there has been a change in you, and it has nothing to do with age. One thing I know about you: when you set your mind and heart on something, there isn’t anything that stands in your way, including older bones. No, there’s something else on your mind. I’ve seen you, looking off dreamily as we drive down the road. You were doing it this morning on the way here.

• From Martin Luther (2016)

  Is his confessor’s return dependent upon Luther becoming “calm” or “still” ( quietus ), or indeed, on his keeping “quiet,” as the Latin word may also imply—that is, halting his struggle against the Pope? It was psychologically prescient. Staupitz almost certainly sent back the copies of the commentary on Galatians that Luther had enclosed with his October letter, refusing his protégé’s gift: He could hardly have made it clearer that he would have no truck with the new theology. 11 In January 1521, Luther reminded him of the words he had spoken at Augsburg: “Remember, Friar, you began this in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ,” warning him that now matters were becoming serious. 12 By the time the final bull of excommunication was published on January 3, 1521, Luther could no longer be sure of Staupitz’s loyalty. In February he was complaining that his confessor had already betrayed him by writing to the Pope, accepting him as judge in the matter, for Leo would certainly force him to deny Luther’s teaching. Luther underlined the extent of Staupitz’s capitulation: If God loved him, he would force him to revoke his acceptance, for in the bull the Pope had condemned all that Staupitz had himself taught and believed until now. “But this is not a time to fear, but to shout,” Luther expostulated, adding, “As much as you exhort me to humility, so I exhort you to be proud.” He concluded: “You have too much humility, just as I have too much pride.” Luther contrasted what he termed Staupitz’s “submission” with the Elector’s prudence, wisdom, and—in a dig at his confessor’s pusillanimity—constancy; he also described how others, like the humanist and knight Ulrich von Hutten, were standing by him. “Your submission has saddened me, and has shown me another Staupitz than the earlier Staupitz, the proclaimer of grace and of the Cross,” Luther wrote. “If you had done this before finding out about the bull and the insult to Christ, you would not have saddened me so greatly.” 13 It seems that Luther did not write to Staupitz again for more than a year. For his part, Staupitz wrote sadly to Wenzeslaus Linck in October 1521 that he was now his only friend, “destitute of the other, oh sorrow, whose voice I never once hear nor whose face do I see.” 14 Luther’s disenchantment was complete when, in 1522, Staupitz suddenly became a Benedictine abbot and retired to his beloved Salzburg, to which he had earlier invited Luther. “It is my wish, that you should leave Wittenberg for a time and come to me, so that we may live and die together,” Staupitz had written, probably in December 1518.

• From Martin Luther (2016)

  Hieronymus and his sister Barbara suffered from melancholy and from Anfechtungen, and some of Luther’s most moving letters of spiritual comfort were written to them: “I know the sickness well and have lain in that hospital until I nearly suffered eternal death,” he wrote to Barbara. If she started to worry about whether she was elected or not, he told her to spit those thoughts out, “just as someone immediately spits it out if dung falls into his mouth.” 19 But he thought sufferers had a duty to repulse melancholic thoughts—“you can’t stop the birds flying over your head, but you don’t have to let them nest in your hair.” 20 60. Lucas Cranach the Elder, Johannes Bugenhagen, 1532. Melancholy also played a part in his friendship with Bugenhagen, or as Luther liked to call him, “Dr. Pommer,” a former teacher and priest who was pastor of Wittenberg from 1523 (with interruptions) and acted as Luther’s confessor until the reformer’s death. The son of a town councilor in Pomerania, he was one of the few of Luther’s followers to come from a region where Low German was spoken, and he was therefore sent to implement the Reformation in Pomerania as well as in Braunschweig, Hamburg, Lübeck, and even Denmark. 21 Crucially important in comforting Luther during his breakdown in 1527, he repeatedly provided the pastoral care Luther craved during his periods of melancholy, just as Staupitz had done. 22 Amsdorf was another close friend on whom Luther relied, and whose intellectual formation was similar to his own. He was of noble birth, the nephew of Staupitz, and his father was a courtier of Friedrich the Wise. At Wittenberg, in a job Staupitz had secured for him, he had taught the philosophy of Duns Scotus, Staupitz’s favored philosopher. 23 He and Luther had first met in 1508 but Amsdorf was particularly drawn by Luther’s theses, which his student Bartholomäus Bernhardi defended in 1516; from then on, he became a doughty and determined supporter of the Reformation, devoting his entire energies to spreading Luther’s message. 24 He apparently remained a bachelor, though Katharina von Bora reputedly insisted she would marry only Luther or him. 25 Neither Amsdorf nor Bugenhagen, around Luther’s age, could be considered his intellectual peers, and otherwise he seems to have found it easier to sustain close friendships with younger men who could not even pretend to be on equal terms with him. Johann Agricola, Jonas, and Melanchthon, for example, were all a good decade younger.

• From Shunned (2018)

  Soon we entered a suburban sprawl that was new to me, large housing developments stretched out over acres where we used to pick strawberries in the summer. Lory turned the car into one of these developments, winding through a series of tract houses, and parked in front of a one-level ranch-style house. “Here we are,” Mom said from the backseat. “When we go in, I’ll get an update from the hospice nurse, and then we’ll sit with Grandma a bit.” Grandma T.’s small room was gobbled up by the hospital bed that dominated one corner. The bed was perched up, and Grandma was lying there, eyes not quite open and not quite shut, eyelids thin, with barely a trace of lashes. The full reality of her impending death hit me as I observed Mom coaxing this once lively and self-possessed woman to take a few sips of water through a curled plastic straw. “Look who’s here to see you, Grandma. It’s Lindy.” I pulled a chair up to her bedside, sat down, and slipped both arms through the frigid metal railings, taking hold of her cool, knobby hands. Her blank expression did not change. I believe she was drawing inward, resting between the dimensions, pulling together the energy she needed to pass over into another world. I was raised to believe that death is a state of nonexistence, no consciousness, living only in Jehovah’s memory, until some far-off time when he resurrects people back to physical form in the New World. But I didn’t believe that anymore. Deeply saddened as I contemplated the months of pain and suffering leading to her death, I was comforted to think the universe would never be without the essence of Grandma T.’s kind soul, and that soon she would be released from the confines of corporeal form, free to grace us all again from benevolent realms. Soon it was time to leave, so I said my last goodbye and we headed back down the dark corridor, through the foyer, dodging raindrops as we dashed toward the car. All three of us were quiet for a while, in a reflective, respectful way, but I don’t think any of us was overcome with grief or emotion. I was grateful to see Grandma one last time, feeling the melancholy and mystery of the situation. I guessed Lory and Mom would feel some relief upon her death; in their view, it would open the way for her to potentially be resurrected into the New System on a perfect physical earth, if that was Jehovah’s will for her soul. The windshield wipers kept the beat as we drove past my old high school and Lory updated me on her life. She and Ove continued to work together on his home construction business while she pursued her real estate license. They did not have children, so she was free to remain very active in preaching work. Ove’s position as a congregation elder also kept him busy.

• From Shunned (2018)

  Mundane moments like stumbling upon Mom’s famous apple pie recipe or listening to a friend describe a fun night out with his dad could evoke sorrow or envy. Hearing Kenny Loggins sing “Celebrate Me Home” on the radio could leave me unsettled for hours, betwixt and between the world I now reveled in and the fold I left behind. When we leave one world for another, poignant moments like that are inescapable. The emotional pain fuels our initiation into the life that is ours to claim if we dare. Initiations usually involve purification, letting go, burning through the agony. With time I was able to reconcile the paradox of feeling sadness and relief, loss and liberation, all at once. I could not imagine returning to my old life or religion. What choice did I have but to put one foot in front of the other and cultivate compassion and acceptance for the predicament? Minus that resolution, I would never be free in the fullest sense. I was committed to freedom. It made no sense to go through the turmoil of being shunned only to be trapped by self-pity or resentment, which are just different forms of dogma. Over time, my family seldom came to mind, and then with only a twinge of melancholy and matter-of-factness. Agony faded to discomfort, which then morphed into a faint emotional bruise that caused an occasional cringe when a random song or memory pressed against it. The black hooded riders rode into the same world occupied by Mother Goose. I did not feel possessed of blame, anger, or fear. The world felt safe as I found my place in it, as I discovered my own unique “worldliness.” Over that transformational decade, I kept my word and sent my parents a card whenever I changed addresses or phone numbers. Clear lines had been drawn, but I wanted my family always to know where I lived and how to reach me. The world prepared for Y2K, which I quietly mocked as another man-made Armageddon. By my thirty-eighth birthday, I was living in California. Visa recruited me to oversee one of its emerging-market segments and offered to move me to San Francisco, near its headquarters. After shivering through five Chicago winters, I was happy for a new scene and professional challenge. Daffodils bloomed in February, and the mild Mediterranean climate allowed for hiking and biking year-round. I was in a state of continuous rapture over the beauty of the area. Working for a leading global brand was an eye-opener, and I had to step up my professional game to keep up and flourish. Over the years, I held a variety of leadership positions, interacting with executives at all levels of our banking system. During that time, I grew dismayed by the suffering caused by unskillful leadership and the foolish decisions smart people make when they lose connection with their heart and soul.

• From Shunned (2018)

  I enjoy what I do for a living. My work is more than just a paycheck to me.” She shook her head. “Which is exactly what I’m afraid of,” she said. “This whole work scene has gone to your head. I’m sure you’re good at what you do, but is it worth risking your life?” Her eyes got all watery, and she looked at me with a combination of warmth and fear that I had never seen before. “Lindy,” she continued, her voice soft and sibilant, “you’ve never done anything wrong in your whole life. Ever. You’ve always been a good girl. You’ve got a great reputation. Everyone looks up to you.” Her voice trailed off, and a tear rolled down her face. She reached for a napkin from the tray and wiped her cheeks. Seeing her this openly emotional was unsettling. I froze for a moment, not knowing what to do, wondering if I should reach out and try to comfort her. My throat ached as I took another sip of whiskey and noticed I was also getting teary-eyed. It was disarming to see my sister express such explicit and genuine emotion and care for me. We’d never talked this frankly before. “You need to understand,” she said, “that the community will never forget this. Even when you straighten yourself out, you’ll always be the person who strayed. It changes the way people look at you.” That was the moment I realized how much my sister had suffered during her own spiritual crisis. I was embarrassed to remember how I’d been one of the people who’d judged her. I was in my early twenties and every inch the Christian soldier, zealous and pioneering. When our family learned of her affair, we all lined up to meet with her one-on-one. Shortly after her indiscretions were revealed, she did what we all considered the honorable thing by ending the relationship, repenting for her sins, and turning her life around. She was single for several years, then found a loving relationship with Ove and was now an elder’s wife. I had assumed her troubles were old news and long forgotten. Still, she seemed to be carrying that burden from the past. In small ways, I had helped her through that rough time, and now she was attempting to return the favor. “Why didn’t you just leave The Truth?” I asked. “Did you ever question it through all of this?” “Not for one minute,” she said. “I see now I just let my spiritual side whither, and that opened me up to a bunch of foolishness. I just wasn’t myself. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I failed a big test.” A cloud passed overhead, casting the room in gray for a few moments. I sipped some more from my shot glass.

• From Martin Luther (2016)

  Prayer, however, would remain hugely important to Luther. From a short work he wrote in 1535, we know that he prayed either kneeling or standing up, with his hands folded, and looking toward heaven with his eyes open. As he described it, prayer is a process: Its purpose is to “warm the heart.” Luther advised the believer to contemplate each line of the “Our Father” and elaborate it in his prayer, before going through the Ten Commandments, each of which should be considered “as a book of doctrine, a song book, a confessional manual and a prayer book.” “If you have time left over,” he suggested adding a creed. His advice clearly contains traces of the methodical system of the hours, although he also insisted that “a good prayer should not be long and should not be drawn out, but should be frequent and fiery.”7 As Luther now moved away from the kind of spirituality he had explored with Staupitz, his relationship with his former patron and confessor also began to change. Although throughout his life he would consistently credit Staupitz with having been his sole teacher and having “begun the matter,” there are indications in his letters that his attitude toward him was much more ambivalent. In 1516, when Luther heard that the Elector wanted to have Staupitz made bishop of Chiemsee, a plum posting, Luther had written to Spalatin refusing to have any part in the scheme. To be a bishop, he averred, means “to practice Greek ways, to sodomize and to live in a Roman manner,” and to amass personal property, “that is, the insatiable hell of avarice.” Although Luther was careful to point out that Staupitz was of course far removed from such vices, he asked Spalatin straight out: “do you want to be guarantor that when the opportunity is there…or when he is driven to it by necessity, this man will not be sucked into the maelstrom and raging storms of the courts of bishops?”8 It seems that by this point Luther thought that Staupitz’s love of luxury—or perhaps his sexual inclinations (the verbs pergraecari, sodomari, romanari hint at homosexuality or pederasty)—outweighed his zeal for the Christian life.

• From Vision Quest (1979)

  So then I read about the effects of pregnancy in Obstetrics and Gynecology and was pretty sure she had. It seems that carrying a baby can stretch a woman’s muscles so far they can lose their tonicity. That’s one of the causes of stretch marks. And in a way it seems to be the same with the veins in the anal cavity that become hemorrhoids. When a mother is giving birth there’s so much blood being pumped around and so much pressure being exerted that the veins get stretched so far they can’t regain their shape. The tissue bursts through the mucous membrane lining the anal canal and hangs around being a hemorrhoid. I figured if Carla could pee in front of me, I could ask her if she’d been pregnant. So I did. “Did Dad tell you?” she asked. “No,” I said. “I just thought from your stretch marks that maybe you had been.” “I was,” Carla said. I didn’t know what to say then. “My baby died,” she said. “I don’t believe in God, but I think it was a blessing.” “That’s good,” I said, with incredible thoughtlessness. “I mean, I’m sorry it had to be a good thing.” Then I shut up fast. “My milk’s almost gone,” Carla said. “I had to milk myself for a while.” “Milk yourself?” I’d never heard of that. “I thought women took shots for that. It’s supposed to hurt like hell when the milk isn’t nursed out.” “It’s a wonderful pain,” Carla said. “Look.” Carla unbuttoned her shirt and squeezed a breast pretty hard. A bead of milk appeared on her nipple. I felt strange. I’d never seen anything like that before. I thought it was beautiful and sad. She was so beautiful. “Your breasts have gotten smaller since you came,” I said. “Um-hum,” she replied, buttoning her shirt. That was about all we said to each other for a long time. The intimacy of the talk didn’t bring us together or anything. I didn’t learn about Austin Tower from Carla. I first saw him at the YMCA. He’d be there in the evenings playing ball and lifting weights. I hated him right off. He was this really handsome guy, about six-three and maybe two hundred pounds. He was the color of a horse chestnut and wore a middle-sized Afro. And aside from being better-looking, he leg-pressed more than I did. Otto barely out-leg-pressed Tower. I don’t train with weights, so I really didn’t hate him as much as if he’d done more pushups than I, or more dips. I was jealous of Tower’s good looks. Not many guys are better-looking than I am from the neck down, but sometimes I think I’d trade all my muscle tone for a better-looking face. I mean I’m not ugly or anything—except maybe for my cauliflower ears. It’s just that I’ve always kind of wished I was good-looking. Tower and his pals made me look silly on the basketball court.

• From The Battle for God (2000)

  59 As students in Cairo, Banna and his friends were moved almost to tears by the political and social confusion in the city. 60 There was a political stalemate: the parties engaged in fruitless and vociferous debate and were still manipulated by the British, who despite Egyptian “independence” remained very much in command of the country. When Banna took up his first teaching post in Ismailiyyah in the Suez Canal Zone, where the British were ensconced, the humiliation of his people affected his very soul. The British and other expatriates had no interest in the local population, but kept a firm hand on the economy and public utilities. He was shamed by the contrast between the luxurious homes of the British and the miserable hovels of the Egyptian workers. 61 For Banna, a devout Muslim, this was not merely a matter of politics. The condition of the ummah , the Muslim community, is as crucial a religious value in Islam as a particular doctrinal formulation in Christianity. Banna was as spiritually distressed by the plight of his people as a Protestant fundamentalist when he felt that the inerrancy of the Bible had been impugned, or a member of Neturei Karta when he saw what he regarded as the desecration of the Holy Land by the Zionists. Banna was especially concerned to see the people drifting away from the mosques. The vast majority of Egyptians had not been included in the modernization process, and they were bewildered by the Western ideas they encountered in the numerous newspapers, journals, and magazines that were published in Cairo, which seemed either to have nothing in common with or to be positively hostile toward Islam. The ulema had turned their backs on the modern scene, and could offer the people no effective guidance, and the politicians made no sustained attempt to deal with the social, economic, or educational problems of the masses. 62 Banna decided that something had to be done. It was no good having high-flown discussions about nationalism and Egypt’s future relationship with Europe when the vast bulk of the population felt confused and demoralized. As he saw it, the only way the people could find spiritual healing was by returning to the first principles of the Koran and the Sunnah. Banna organized a few of his friends to hold impromptu “sermons” in the mosques and coffeehouses. 63 He told his audience that the impact of the West and the recent political changes had knocked them off balance, and that they no longer understood their religion. Islam was not a Western-style ideology, or a set of creeds. It was a total way of life and, if lived wholeheartedly, would bring back that dynamism and energy that Muslims had had long ago, before they had been colonized by foreigners. To make the ummah strong again, they must rediscover their Muslim souls. 64 Even though he was only in his early twenties, Banna made an impression.

• From The Battle for God (2000)

  Sparks of divine light fell into the abyss of all that was not God. After this “breaking of the vessels,” some of the sparks returned to the Godhead, but others remained trapped in this Godless realm, which was filled with the evil potential that Ein Sof had purged from itself in the act of Zimzum. After this disaster, creation was awry; things were in the wrong place. When Adam was created, he could have rectified the situation and, had he done so, the divine exile would have ended on the first Sabbath. But Adam sinned and henceforth the divine sparks were trapped in material objects, and the Shekhinah, the Presence that is the closest we come to an apprehension of the divine on earth, wandered through the world, a perpetual exile, yearning to be reunited with the Godhead. 11 It is a fantastic tale, but if the Kabbalists of Safed had been asked if they believed that this had really occurred, they would have found the question inappropriate. The primordial event described in myth is not simply an incident that happened once in the remote past; it is also an occurrence that happens all the time. We have no concept or word for such an event, because our rational society thinks of time in a strictly chronological way. If the worshippers at Eleusis in ancient Greece had been asked if they could prove that Persephone had been held prisoner by Pluto in the underworld, and that her mother, Demeter, had wandered around mourning the loss of her daughter, they would probably have been bewildered by the query. How could they be certain that Persephone had returned to the earth, as the myth related? Because the fundamental rhythm of life that this mythos had revealed was actually taking place. The fields were harvested, seedcorn placed in underground containers was sown at the correct time, and, finally, the corn grew. 12 Both the mythos and the phenomenon of the harvest pointed to something fundamental and universal about the world, in rather the same way as the English word “boat” and the French “bateau” both point to a reality that is extrinsic and independent of either term. The Sephardic Jews would probably have made a similar reply. Exile was a fundamental law of existence. Wherever you looked, Jews were uprooted aliens. Even the gentiles experienced loss, disappointment, and a sense that they were not quite at home in the world—as witness the universal myths about the first human beings being expelled from a primordial paradise. Luria’s complex creation story had revealed this and made it clear in a wholly new way. The exile of the Shekhinah and their own lives as displaced people were not two separate realities but one and the same. Zimzum showed that exile was inscribed in the very ground of being.

• From The Lover (1984)

  It was the handsome ships of the Messageries Maritimes, the musketeers of the shipping lines, the Porthos, D’Artagnan, and Aramis, that linked Indochina to France. The voyage lasted twenty-four days. The liners were like towns, with streets, bars, cafés, libraries, drawing rooms, meetings, lovers, weddings, deaths. Chance societies formed, fortuitous as everyone knew and did not forget, but for that very reason tolerable, and sometimes unforgettably pleasant. These were the only voyages the women ever made. And for many of them, and for some men too, the voyage out to the colony was the real adventure of the whole thing. For our mother those trips, together with our infancy, were always what she called “the happiest days of her life.” Departures. They were always the same. Always the first departures over the sea. People have always left the land in the same sorrow and despair, but that never stopped men from going, Jews, philosophers, and pure travelers for the journey’s own sake. Nor did it ever stop women letting them go, the women who never went themselves, who stayed behind to look after the birthplace, the race, the property, the reason for the return. For centuries, because of the ships, journeys were longer and more tragic than they are today. A voyage covered its distance in a natural span of time. People were used to those slow human speeds on both land and sea, to those delays, those waitings on the wind or fair weather, to those expectations of shipwreck, sun, and death. The liners the little white girl knew were among the last mailboats in the world. It was while she was young that the first airlines were started, which were gradually to deprive mankind of journeys across the sea. We still went every day to the flat in Cholon. He behaved as usual, for a while he behaved as usual, giving me a shower with the water from the jars, carrying me over to the bed. He’d come over to me, lie down too, but now he had no strength, no potency. Once the date of my departure was fixed, distant thought it still was, he could do nothing with my body any more. It had happened suddenly, without his realizing it. His body wanted nothing more to do with the body that was about to go away, to betray. He’d say, I can’t make love to you any more, I thought I still could, but I can’t. He’d say he was dead. He’d give a sweet, apologetic smile, say that perhaps it would never come back. I’d ask him if that’s what he wanted. He, almost laughing, would say, I don’t know, at this moment perhaps yes. His gentleness was unaffected by his pain. He didn’t speak of the pain, never said a word about it. Sometimes his face would quiver, he’d close his eyes and clench his teeth. But he never said anything about the images he saw behind his closed eyes.

• From The Lover (1984)

  For her too it was when the boat uttered its first farewell, when the gangway was hauled up and the tugs had started to tow and draw the boat away from land, that she had wept. She’d wept without letting anyone see her tears, because he was Chinese and one oughtn’t to weep for that kind of lover. Wept without letting her mother or her younger brother see she was sad, without letting them see anything, as was the custom between them. His big car was there, long and black with the white-liveried driver in front. It was a little way away from the Messageries Maritimes car park, on its own. That was how she’d recognized it. That was him in the back, that scarcely visible shape, motionless, overcome. She was leaning on the rails, like the first time, on the ferry. She knew he was watching her. She was watching him too, she couldn’t see him any more but she still looked toward the shape of the black car. And then at last she couldn’t see it any more. The harbor faded away, and then the land. There was the China Sea, the Red Sea, the Indian Ocean, the Suez Canal, the morning when you woke up and knew from the absence of vibration that you were advancing through the sand. But above all there was the ocean. The furthest, the most vast, it reached to the South Pole. It had the longest distance between landfalls, between Ceylon and Somalia. Sometimes it was so calm, and the weather so fair and mild, that crossing it was like a journey over something other than the sea. Then the whole boat opened up, the lounges, the gangways, the portholes, and the passengers fled their sweltering cabins and slept on deck. Once, during the crossing of the ocean, late at night, someone died. She can’t quite remember if it was on that voyage or another that it happened. Some people were playing cards in the first-class bar, and among the players was a young man who at one point, without saying anything, laid down his cards, left the bar, ran across the deck, and threw himself into the sea. By the time the boat was stopped—it was going at full speed—the body couldn’t be found. No, now she comes to write it down she doesn’t see the boat, but somewhere else, the place where she was told about it. It was in Sadec. It was the son of the district officer in Sadec. She knew him, he’d been at the high school in Saigon too. She remembers him, dark, tall, with a very gentle face and horn-rimmed glasses. Nothing was found in his cabin, no farewell letter. His age has remained in her memory, terrifying, the same, seventeen. The boat went on again at dawn. That was the worst. The sunrise, the empty sea, and the decision to abandon the search. The parting.