It has sat there for seven nights now, the same brown leather Bible I have read from almost every night since my first year sober, closed, untouched, gathering the thin layer of dust that collects on anything left alone in a bedroom for a week. I still turn off the lamp at the same time. I still say goodnight to my wife the same way. I just stopped reaching for it, and if she noticed she has not said anything, which somehow makes the silence in that corner of the nightstand feel even louder than it would if someone had asked me about it. It started, if I am honest, after a phone call from a man I sponsored for four years, telling me he was back in a hospital bed after two years clean, and after that came a diagnosis in my own family that nobody has fully explained yet, and somewhere between those two conversations something in me went quiet toward God instead of loud. I did not stop believing He exists. I stopped being sure He is doing anything, and those are two very different kin...