This morning: I read it, and down to my soul I was troubled. Every instance, everything I could not answer, weighed heavily upon me. Not a smile, this morning. I sought the comfort of work. Put my hands to a task. Try to keep my mind on my--

It's physical, this trouble. But it's something preventable, not like the last. Does it truly rest on my shoulders--will everything rest upon whether I make the right decision? Is it possible for me to make the right decision? Everywhere I turn I see nothing but trouble, trouble, and more trouble. Nothing I do is or can be the right thing. I feel somehow, though I'm sure I feel wrongly, that this is something I control. Something that is mine to answer, and no other can help me. Not like the last...

The last...there was nothing I could do. My heart was heavy, someone was dying, there was nothing I could do. I found my thoughts on this in an old notebook:

I try to keep my mind on my work. I must do this;it must be done now, or it may never be done. Something is coming that has been coming for a long time, something that will change many things, perhaps even me. I feel the weight of my heart, pulling me to my knees. Ah, but I cannot weep now; I must finish my work. Hands gripping the broom, my eyes follow the dust I sweep from every corner. Would that I could sweep the dust from my faith as easily! Comfort is found in exertion, in putting things in order. A grey veil settles on my mind, a shelter against the inevitable thoughts that would torment my waiting. Peace. Sorrow will come soon enough. The telephone rings--the expected clamor still an assault on my fragile calm. The words come; I hear and answer, surprised by my composure. Everything is quiet, my heart pulsing in a universe of its own. I hear nothing more clearly than my own blood. The thing has come; now I must go to face it. I place the telephone gently on the receiver. I make myself ready. Physically, all is in order. Eyes still open, I extract a prayer from my benumbed soul. It seems dead, a portent for the day's outcome...

I am home again. I did grieve, when the moment came. We all did. The room was rife with sorrow. What of this moment? I am dry and dead...

I pace into my chamber. The service is over; I had no tears. I lie down with my weighty grief, turn my face into my pillow. Now it comes--a prayer falls, with tears. Sobs twist me, crumble me. It's over--it lasted such a short time. This will, indeed, change many things. Will anything change me?

Now, I have forgotten all but this: I try to keep my mind on my work.