I was discussing Christianity with my mother. I am not a Christian. She is a libral one. I was trying to weave a historical explanation for the differences between Catholicism and Eastern Orthodoxy, differences I had read about in a book by a presumptuous academic. I was sitting in the park, bathed in the golden light of sunset and the smell of almost dead grass. I felt so whole. Too whole for half guessed details and hesitant claims. I flopped down on my back, staring up at the unfathomable sky and uttered a generalization just as vast: Religion is our way of making God tangible.
My mother paused, her forehead creased in thought. She told me she was not sure if she agreed. She shattered the hopeless perfection of it.