I was taught to believe this, and I did. I loved the ritualistic elements of worship services, especially the sing-and-response psalms: Those perfect echoes of longing were like magical spells being cast in the dark, quiet sanctuary. I liked singing slow, meditative hymns as people silently lined up in the aisle to take Communion. I watched Mom pray and tried to imagine her thoughts. Sometimes she opened one eye and glared at me. "I'm praying," she would whisper, "so stop staring." When I was very small, I tried to stick crayons up her nose to break her concentration. I didn't like her energies to be focused elsewhere—I wanted her full attention all the time. She was the orbit I wanted to move around, because with her I did not feel different, partly because we talked about my disability only in terms of logistics and in a positive way. I felt normal and safe around Mom. Meanwhile, her daily life was a flurry of files, appointments, insurance premiums, and conversations with doctors.
