His touch dispelled the paralysis, granting Dominic energy enough to throw his arms around his Master’s knees, and sob. Dominic’s are not grief tears like mine, reader, not mourning in advance the battle-deaths Jehovah’s war clothes promise. Neither are they joy tears. I would call them tears of raw catharsis, as Dominic’s mind reorders itself around the all-transforming fact that his God can change.
