They go to your door, two by two, just like it says in the Bible -- well-dressed, sometimes in pressed white shirts, sometimes, smart skirts and blouses so that only message is heard, not the person. They want you to know, as they stand at your door, that they have found the way, that they're there to help -- to share peace, maybe happiness, help in hard times, direction. And they are sincere! Tears of joy filter plain eyes, uplifted toward Calvary Hill and gentle pleading: "Please, Sister, walk with Jesus. Please? Let us help you, for our yoke is easy, and our burden, shared." So begins the temptation. And you, and your lonely house, and your charred heart see in these women, or those Elders, an end to the deafening solitude, the tyranny of your crazy voice. Except: down deep, buried in muscles you've forgotten but haven't forgotten you, down in your body's dark labyrinth, a memory saves you. Something your grandpa said and your grandma nodded to: "You can only let others carry you so far. Then, you've got to walk." And you see your cross behind you, the empty house, the bills your husband left you, the ashes of life, and you smile because they are your ashes, he was your husband, no one else's, yours. And you say as your world reaches for you: "Thank you for showing me what I carry --." And though they don't see it (the plank in the eye and all that), they've actually spoken Jesus (and all that), brought the dead back to life, and showed a sinner the way. They just don't get to claim the credit.