There are turning points in our life, W. says. Conversions. Sometimes we’re called, he says. Sometimes we’re allowed to become better than we are. God knows, that’s what we need.

What set of events would let us come into our own?, W. wonders. He sees us in his mind’s eye, battling our demons in our monks' cells. He sees us with a band of hermits, heading out into the desert.

To disappear into a larger movement!: isn’t that what he wants?, W. says. To be dissolved anonymously into some great work of goodness ... He'd have to bring me with him, that's the problem, W. says. I'd be trotting alongside him, tugging at his habit, and wondering when we could stop for lunch.