Is it an achievement to reach a point at which I trust that the meaning, which I do not feel, is there, a condition that elsewhere in this book I have called faith? Or should I reach the end of an effort like this, having felt acutely the end of a life like mine (both intensely devoted and terminally confused, haunted and inhabited by a God of grief, of love, of absence, of always), with more certainty, more assurance that I am loved by God, some freedom from these cracks that open in my brain, rifts splitting right down to the bright abyss that is, finally, devoid of any meaning but the one I
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