I had remarked so plainly that, whenever I had been hungry for any length
of time, it was just as if my brains ran quite gently out of my head and
left me with a vacuum--my head grew light and far off, I no longer felt
its weight on my shoulders, and I had a consciousness that my eyes stared
far too widely open when I looked at anything.
I sat there on the seat and pondered over all this, and grew more and more
bitter against God for His prolonged inflictions. If He meant to draw me
nearer to Him, and make me better by exhausting me and placing obstacle
after obstacle in my way, I could assure Him He made a slight mistake.
And, almost crying with defiance, I looked up towards Heaven and told Him
so mentally, once and for all.
Fragments of the teachings of my childhood ran through my memory. The
rhythmical sound of Biblical language sang in my ears, and I talked quite
softly to myself, and held my head sneeringly askew. Wherefore should I
sorrow for what I eat, for what I drink, or for what I may array this
miserable food for worms called my earthy body? Hath not my Heavenly
Father provided for me, even as for the sparrow on the housetop, and hath
He not in His graciousness pointed towards His lowly servitor? The Lord
stuck His finger in the net of my nerves gently--yea, verily, in desultory
fashion--and brought slight disorder among the threads. And then the Lord
withdrew His finger, and there were fibres and delicate root-like
filaments adhering to the finger, and they were the nerve-threads of the
filaments.
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