I’d finally reached that state of inner silence when a voice at my elbow nearly scared me out of my wits. “Are you all right, child?” Reverend Snow asked, looking at me with concern. “You look troubled.” I opened my mouth to tell the Reverend that I was perfectly well and never more at peace with myself or the world, which was, of course, a blatant lie, when something entirely different came out of my mouth. I’d seen Reverend Snow only twice before, but he had a gentleness of manner and a sympathetic gaze that made him appear extremely approachable, particularly since he was no older than thirty. “Reverend, do you ever feel lost?” I blurted out. The look on Reverend Snow’s face was one of such surprise that I was instantly sorry I said anything. This wasn’t a modern-day clergyman who could admit to doubts and his own interpretation of “the word.” This was a seventeenth-century cleric, who was most likely a zealot despite his kind demeanor. How could he possibly understand how bewildered I felt at that moment, torn between the logical solution put forth by my brain and the totally illogical one advocated by the heart?
