SHE SET HER CUSHION BEFORE THE east-facing window, lit the candle and placed it on the floor beneath the ledge. Her shawl was in the closet under an oilcloth and she pulled it around her thin shoulders, folded into her ritual posture, and began her morning devotions. But after closing her eyes she discovered a freshly plowed field of worry. Among other distractions, the sweet smell of furniture oil on the shawl crawled through her landscape of mental images, preventing her from fixing her mind and calming her breath. Her heart beat like a cornered raven’s. Shapes howled and thorns sprang from even the most soothing recollections. As though to prosecute her, her thoughts returned again and again to Jacob Helm. She pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders and tried harder. Moving her lips, she carefully considered every syllable of every word of the Twenty-third Psalm, yet even this rigorous discipline could not force her mind to behave.
