Editorial July 14, 1980 Issue

Spiritual medicine: we don't drink it, we think it

Mary McWilliams Johnson

Cinda's mother was painting a portrait of a lovely young girl in the living room of the girl's home while Cinda helped the girl's mother in the kitchen. They'd been doing this every Saturday afternoon for several weeks and had developed a very enjoyable routine. They would come down from their mountain village in the early afternoon, Cinda's mother would work a few hours on the portrait, and they'd stop on the way home at their favorite roadside restaurant.

Cinda liked going along on these Saturday afternoon sittings because it was fun helping in the kitchen, and the hostess served delicious pastry when Cinda's mother and the girl sitting for the portrait took a break.

But this particular Saturday things didn't go well. Cinda had a sore throat and began to feel so feverish and achy she wanted to go home soon after arriving at the house. So she slipped into the living room where her mother was painting and whispered the problem to her.

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