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Show 15 sleep. And thus the days passed in a regular pattern, a line of black x's on the calendar. There was one significant change that spring. On Sundays she went to church with the family, watching over the younger children. But she was very angry with God. She would never forgive God for what he had allowed to happen. And yet, in some vague way, she sensed that she wanted her old relationship with God. She needed that overwhelming presence, that absolute strength. But she would not give in, she would not forgive him. She was vaguely aware of this ambivalent feeling within her. But then always, it seemed, she had experienced ambivalent feelings for God. As a little girl, she had feared him. At any moment, he could dash her-and the ones she loved-into hell. On Sunday mornings she would silently pray on the way to mass that there would not be an automobile crash that would hurl them into damnation. And at the church doors, she would breathe a prayer of thanks that they were spared another trip. At the same time, in certain moments, she was convinced that she was in God's grace. That his omnipotence was protecting her and her family. He was a good God, who watched over her, who allowed no terrible, irrevocable harm to come to her. Well, the irrevocable harm had come. In a slow, insidious manner, her parents had died. Were buried in the ground. Dead. Irrevocably dead. He had not protected them. And her anger was pure, intense-a hot personal hatred. |