When it first started to happen, it made me anxious. I had been through my doubting, socialist phase. I had battled a serious illness. I had returned to the Catholic Church. I should have been settling into a quiet, normal life.
But then it would happen. I’d be lying in bed late at night, or looking at the ocean or even walking down the street, and the thought would come into my mind: I don’t know what you are.
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