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Random Reprisal, Rigid Ritual continued

But, it was not in the jungle. It was in church.

Sundays were traumatic for me when I was about 10. I dreaded going to our country church -- a very formal, fundamentalist congregation that insisted on ushering people in and out of church, even though an attendance of 60 nearly filled the sanctuary.

At that time, I didn't walk with crutches. While I was relaxed and lifted by a feeling of inner confidence, I could walk unaided and override my lack of balance.

Yet, when self-consciousness gripped me, my leg muscles tightened. It was like walking with two artificial legs -- with little control, little balance -- and I would stumble and fall into a heap.

Sunday mornings I would find myself struggling to keep up with our family as the usher in front of us would sweep down the center aisle of church as if he were leading a parade.

Left behind -- even though the distance between the front and back of the church was no longer than 60 feet -- I would go through all kinds of contortions, trying to get my stiff legs moving forward and my wooden feet tracking in the right direction. The goal: to get down the aisle without falling.

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