Mishalariah clasped the Ayin to her breast. “It's like he isn't whole unless she is. I hope she marries him.”
Spirit reclined in the blue velvet chair, his eyes sparkling above a broad smile. "She will. I gave her a vision."
Mishalariah stared into the Ayin’s reflective surface. "I remember that." She squeezed her eyes shut. "She woke up in the middle of the night and felt a strange energy fluctuating between their ribs." Her brow furrowed. "What was that?"
Spirit stiffened, then relaxed as he slowly swiveled back and forth. "The making of one flesh out of two."
Mishalariah's eyes widened. "Really?! How does that work?"
Spirit smiled. "It is a mystery."
Mishalariah gazed back at the Ayin. "Then she looked up at his face and sensed that he would be a strong shoulder to lean on in times of trouble."
Spirit leaned forward. "That sounds like scripture. Have you two been reading?"
Mishalariah sighed. "No. Only singing. But it sure makes me hungry for more."
"More?"
"Knowledge... wisdom."
Spirit laughed. "More than you get with our sessions?"
"You answer my questions." She shrugged. "But I don't know what I am supposed to be asking."
Spirit nodded.
"Lord?" Mishalariah peered into the Ayin again. "Is there going to be trouble in her future?"
Spirit leaned back in his chair. This time he did not smile. "There is trouble in everyone's future."
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Don't Cry, Mishalariah: A Memoir
Some memoirists are old and close to death. Some are famous—or infamous. They want us to remember their story, and not the stories others tell about them. Others, perhaps not as well known, want us to remember something essential. Something that transcends their own lives in stories that go against the current culture.