A peak at the beginning of Kingdom of Gods:
Throughout the sterile intensive care unit, down the shadowed hallway, and out beyond the windows to the empty night sky they heard him cry out. Someone dropped a tray; then a quiet fell upon the entire ward. For a moment it was all a part of his exploding, inconsolable grief.
Waterhouse couldn’t bear to look upon his wife’s lifeless face. He turned away and stiffened his posture in a hopeless effort to dam the flood of tears. He stumbled to the waiting room and let his grief flow. It took nearly an hour before he was composed enough to make his way out of the ward.
He glanced around, watching as medical staff continued their routine, ambling down the hallways, chatting with visitors, moving equipment from one room to another. He heard the sounds of a couple sharing a laugh, saw them touching. A janitor removed some trash and carried on without lifting his head to make eye contact with Sam, as though he wasn’t there.
Life continued on. It did a dance around him but didn’t invite him to enter its rhythm or pleasure. As grief took root, his connection with his higher wisdom began to detach itself. In place of his Japanese mother’s Buddhist mantras, his military training set up a protective barrier and the door to his heart slammed shut.
His military code of conduct provided a measure of comfort. It gave him motivation to sustain his control. He had Joy’s murderer to capture, two sons to protect, schedules to keep, and, above all, the decorum of a high-ranking naval officer to maintain.
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