And then sometimes—lots of times—all I could do was share that gospel. The darkness would drift over us, the pain too heavy, the grief too fresh, like this person was sending out shock waves, radiating some kind of spiritual EMP shorting out all our circuits. We’d end up sitting shiva, saying nothing, simply mourning the reality that we were back here again, facing the same deals and devils. Sometimes I’d think of things to say, but if I was wise that day I wouldn’t say them.
