The downtown neurosurgeon's waiting room needed a style makeover but at least the magazines were current and they had The New Yorker. My husband Chris and I waited for my appointment; another couple waited as well. The other woman didn’t look so different from me: roughly my age, dark hair, glasses. October drizzle had both of us wearing fleece jackets. She was fiddling incessantly but quietly with her cell phone. Repulsive soft disco wafted among the Naugahyde chairs.

Jubilation, ecstasy, elation, prayerful gratitude, drunken giddiness, righteous celebration, overwhelming joy. Laughing-crying happiness. Pride. It’s been hours now since the news, and I’m still having trouble forming complete sentences. As all great moments that are too large to process in their entirety, this one flickers before me, one image, one emotion, one thought fragment at a time. Jesse Jackson, speechless, tears streaming down his face. Worshippers at Ebenez