“Please don’t give me answers; though that is what I say, that is not what I long for in this chest of broken pieces. I do not want your sympathy, your pat Bible verses, or your lofty promises of prayer. No, I want something much more sinister than that. I ask you to suffer, to take my nails of my grief and drive them into yourself. I ask you to be silent, shut your mouth, and open your hands. Don’t say you understand. Just touch me. Will you hold my hand? Though it’s cold and bony, will you embrace me tightly? Can you wail as I wail, curse as I curse, pray as I pray? I don’t want to be fixed; I want to be known. I want your presence kneeling by my bed, feeling useless, powerless, helpless. Yes, for then, for then, you will understand a small part of me that few have had the courage to know.”