Helplessness takes many forms. Like the lovers stranded on a northern road, a world away, miles stretching along the horizon and aching across the tightrope between their bodies. Like the old bluejacket who spends all his money on first day covers and all his time with his sons not visiting him.

There, sat on a stranger’s lawn, blinded by the low evening sun with prayers ringing through my ears, I had the distinct notion that if I were to experience God, anywhere at all, it would be here. If there was ever going to be a singular time, a singular sensation, a singular place where the presence of God would hit me suddenly, electric and heavy like the feeling before a storm, it’d be in a garden full of strangers, a boy too young and too innocent to be looking at me like that peering over his glasses as his father leads hymns I’m expected to know.

But it didn’t. And now I don’t know what to think.

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