*
"Who ever did you tell? Who did you confide in?" asks my pastor, who is utterly fascinated by this tale, and every tale. He asks with gentle and blazing curiosity. He is the perfect model for listeners everywhere.
It's a dark evening at his home in the desert. We've just finished dinner, and are now enjoying his famously preferred vanilla ice cream and berries. There are books, literally, just - everywhere.
He asks this question as I recount the torment of my bygone life. I talk of my secret, unquenchable longing - the secret, unquenchable longing - of desire without satisfaction, burning without flux or relief.
And though I pause after his question, I know the answer with certainty, immediately. I watch him and think how noticeably alive and reasonable he is set in contrast to the sea of still books behind him. And I look to him and say, knowing that he too, even better than I, understands the fire of Hell:
"No one" I say, "I never told anyone."
___
Let this be recorded for a generation to come,
so that a people yet to be created may praise the Lord:
that he looked down from his holy height;
that he looked down from his holy height;
from heaven the Lord looked at the earth,
to hear the groans of the prisoners,
to hear the groans of the prisoners,
to set free those who were doomed to die,
that they may declare in Zion the name of the Lord,
and in Jerusalem his praise,
when peoples gather together,
and kingdoms, to worship the Lord.
Psalm 102:18-22
