The “glory” elevator failed, Life never did!

I'm a privileged woman! I work at the Misericórdia, right next to the Society of Jesus, and from my window, until yesterday, I could see the Elevador da Glória up close. Tourists, workers, and people were constantly entering and exiting it.

The tragedy took four of my colleagues. But in this Santa Casa, there are about 6,000 of us. With me, 6,001. And now? How can I live with this, this absurdity, this nonsense ? What can I hold on to?

Of course, there's no point in dwelling on the past. It's over. I'm going to enjoy the present. But how do I do that?

Flannery O'Connor says that in this life "there is no real pleasure," and she's right. In other words, I want to enjoy myself, but enjoy it well.

At such a critical moment, the Pastor of the Church of Lisbon called us to the Church of St. Dominic, and the words he spoke comfort me. They aren't sweet or poetic words, but words we exchange with one another, full of good intentions. "Everything will be fine," "keep going," "one day at a time," and, in our characteristic creativity, the thousands of emojis we save and send...

D. Rui Valério's words comfort me because they give me reason. People say to me: "You go to church because it helps you," "You have faith, that's a great help, if only I had it! But I don't." So then, if it weren't for helping, what good would faith be?

Throughout my life, I've searched for answers to the questions I've been stuck with. What is life? Why? What for? I even began studying philosophy because I wanted to work in the field of reason, and I ended up writing a dissertation on Mauruce Blondel's "The Articulation of Faith and Reason" and falling in love with Edmund Husserl, who opened up previously unimaginable horizons for me.

But the elevators we use fail. Academics, social ones, marriages, careers, friendships, fashion, staying up-to- date, the madness of the television channels that fill us with fat, ideological inventions, … – one after the other, they fail. There's no "Wokism " that can save us; it's ultimately a new religion, adding to the many that already exist – and we can say that each person can create one, and that's what happens, "I'm a non-practicing Catholic, who practices this and that," as it suits me.

My Pastor's words convey the age-old reasons for the God who became Man to save us, conquering death. Mine and my people, the 16 of yesterday. His speech doesn't spare biblical quotations, but he also doesn't forget Sofia, as he likes to evoke our poetess in capital letters, with truly poetic words.

The good shepherd knows his sheep well. I like to be compared to a sheep. But not as Nietzsche did, in the sense of a flock. But rather in the sense of a child in its mother's lap. A beautiful analogy for my life.

What words console my heart? Only I know. And I know when I'm lied to, because my heart was made for truth; it is true. To those who told him that truth doesn't exist, Saint Augustine said he had never met a man who wanted to be deceived. And voilá!

In the church of a mourning Lisbon, which had already burned, showing on its walls the scars of the fire that once sought to consume it, we were all there, from the President of the Republic, to the Duke of Braganza, to the mayor, even more bent over on the eve of local elections. Everyone, everyone, everyone: responding to the invitation of the Lord of time and history. He not only called, but was quick to do so. And we went, and not in a herd, I hope...

I am the Way, the Truth and the Life, He does not fail. We are the ones who are distracted, the so-called existential Alzheimer's , much worse than the other (which, curiously, we are so afflicted with...)...

It turns out I'm lucky enough to have St. Roque giving me Bread every day, just around the corner. It's always been this way in my life; Life happened to me and happens. To be thankful and to share, as I was reminded yesterday.

In a violent way, yes. That's why I like Flannery's literature—grotesque, violent, because it's true. She also met her death prematurely, at 39, from lupus!