The Lady With the Sad Eyes has gone home. Her death sentence has not been commuted, and given the complications she's endured in the past two weeks, it has more likely been moved up. The cancer which is killing her has invaded her brain, and her personality has changed as a result. She is no longer sweet and endearing, but tired and occasionally snappish. She didn't recognize her own family when they visited.
How much of what we are is dependent upon the chemical reactions in a few cells? How does faith matter when something so little can change it? Is our soul a mere by-product of biology, a "ghost in the machine," a machine we don't understand, and merely inhabit on the way to an uncertain doom?