And then, at the moment of greatest horror, a miracle happened: I started pushing too! In fact, I stepped on the foot of the young man who had given me the stool. I was rowing with my shoulders, with my elbows, trying to get close to the fire. And finally, I succeeded! How perfect it was! What warmth! What excitement to see the planks crack and throw sparks all around. I rubbed my hands and felt my blood, boiling, returning to my heart and my head. I felt happiness. Someone nudged me, and I nudged them back. I turned and saw the sunken cheeks of the old man who had set aside my suit a month ago. Now it was my turn to set aside.

This time he didn't lose his composure. On the contrary, he passed by me pleased that he was getting one step closer to the tin can. I remembered the packs of strays that the dog catcher gathers every so often, and I felt that I was finally a part of this pack of dogs that bite, growl, cross the streets separately, and finally sleep fur to fur. I understood that we humans are born to eat each other in small bites. That to tear each other apart is why we come into the world, and then cry afterwards, each of us in the arms of our enemy.

And I also understood that any contact, even the worst, is a communion of the life of the other. That I have never communed with anyone. I neither contained anyone nor was contained by anyone. Now I am contained by all those whom I pushed and those who pushed me. I contain them too. And together, we are all contained by the warmth that the chopped wood gives off as it burns.

The life of Christ written today, alongside other lives, similar to ours, that are in dialogue with His Word. And this dialogue is sometimes harsh, sometimes passionate, and sometimes agonizing, but always sincere and therefore necessary.