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Here's another example of the difference in our worldviews. A family in my sister's neighborhood was recently stricken with a double tragedy, when both the young mother and her three-year-old son were diagnosed with cancer. When Catherine told me about this, I could only say, shocked, "Dear God, that family needs grace." She replied firmly, "That family needs casseroles," and then proceeded to organize the entire neighborhood into bringing that family dinner, in shifts, every single night, for an entire year. I do not know if my sister fully recognizes that this is grace.
另有一个例子可以说明我们之间不同的世界观。 我姐姐家附近有一户人家最近遭受双重悲剧的打击，年轻的母亲和她三岁的儿子两人被诊断罹患癌症。凯瑟琳告知我此事时，我只能吃惊地说：“天啊，这家人需要恩典。”她坚定地回答：“这家人需要烧锅炖菜。”而后着手把整个街坊邻居组织起来，每个晚上轮流带晚餐给这家人，持续一整年。我不清楚我姐姐承不承认这正是恩典。
We walk out of St. Susanna, and she says, "Do you know why the popes needed city planning in the Middle Ages? Because basically you had two million Catholic pilgrims a year coming from all over the Western World to make that walk from the Vatican to St. John Lateran—sometimes on their knees—and you had to have amenities for those people."
我们走出圣苏撒纳的时候，她说：“你可知道为什么中世纪的教宗需要都市计划？因为，基本上每一年有两百万名天主教朝圣者从西方世界各地前来，从梵蒂冈徒步走到圣若望拉特朗（St John Lateran）大殿——有时跪着走——你需要为这些人提供设施。”
My sister's faith is in learning. Her sacred text is the Oxford English Dictionary. As she bows her head in study, fingers speeding across the pages, she is with her God. I see my sister in prayer again later that same day—when she drops to her knees in the middle of the Roman Forum, clears away some litter off the face of the soil (as though erasing a blackboard), then takes up a small stone and draws for me in the dirt a blueprint of a classic Romanesque basilica. She points from her drawing to the ruin before her, leading me to understand (even visually challenged me can understand!) what that building once must have looked like eighteen centuries earlier. She sketches with her finger in the empty air the missing arches, the nave, the windows long gone. Like Harold with his Purple Crayon, she fills in the absent cosmos with her imagination and makes whole the ruined.
我姐姐的信仰是学习。她的圣经是牛津英语辞典。当她埋头读书，手指快速翻阅书页时，她正与她的上帝同在。该日傍晚，我再一次看见我姐姐祈祷——她在罗马古墟（Roman Forum）中央跪了下来，清除地面上的废弃物（犹如擦黑板），而后拿起一块小石子，在泥土上为我画下古典罗马教堂的蓝图。她指着图画前方的废墟，引导我了解（甚至用视觉形象挑战我去了解！）1800年前的建筑物是何种光景。她在空气中比画，画出不复存在的拱门、中殿、窗户，就像拿着神仙棒，用想象力填满缺席的宇宙，使废墟变得完整。
In Italian there is a seldom-used tense called the passato remoto, the remote past. You use this tense when you are discussing things in the far, far distant past, things that happened so long ago they have no personal impact whatsoever on you anymore—for example, ancient history. But my sister, if she spoke Italian, would not use this tense to discuss ancient history. In her world, the Roman Forum is not remote, nor is it past. It is exactly as present and close to her as I am.
意大利语当中有个不常使用的时态，叫（遥远的过去 ）。在讨论遥不可及的往事，很久以前发生但对你不再有任何个人冲击的事情时，使用此一时态——比方说，古代历史。然而我的姐姐若说意大利语，绝不会用这时态讨论古代历史。在她的世界中，罗马古墟并不遥远，也不是往事。而是处于当下而且近在咫尺的事情，就像我在她眼前一般真实。
She leaves the next day.
她隔天离开了。
"Listen," I say, "be sure to call me when your plane lands safely, OK? Not to be morbid, but . . ."
“听着，”我说，“在你的飞机安全降落后，一定得打电话给我，好吗？我知道这有点神经，只不过……”
"I know, sweetie," she says. "I love you, too."
Eat, Pray, Love
“我了解，亲爱的，”她说，“我也爱你。”
