Six months later they're still talking baby talk (that's the only word I can think of, but really, I don't what you'd call it) and I'm glad.
I think this means we're friends :)
Saturday, April 26
Friday, April 25
Tip of the Day
If you try to eat breakfast, talk on the phone and drive at the same time, you might drop your cell phone in your bowl of cereal.
Also, your spoon might roll out of the bowl and disappear into the inner workings of your automobile.
The rogue spoon might lodge itself behind your car's gearshift in such a way that the gearshift will continue to move, but your ignition will get the message that the car is not in park. If this happens, your car will start only sporadically, according to how the errant spoon is shifted.
It could happen.
Also, your spoon might roll out of the bowl and disappear into the inner workings of your automobile.
The rogue spoon might lodge itself behind your car's gearshift in such a way that the gearshift will continue to move, but your ignition will get the message that the car is not in park. If this happens, your car will start only sporadically, according to how the errant spoon is shifted.
It could happen.
Endo, Exo
I was watching a ladybug this morning; or rather my eyes were fixed disinterestedly on it as my mind was occupied elsewhere, when it did something that caught my attention. The ladybug opened its spotted wing covers (called elytra), extended its wings, flexed them a bit, then drew them back under the elytra.
What struck me is the way the ladybug is designed, with a brittle exoskeleton covering its fragile wings. What a good idea, I thought, to protect what is probably the most important part of the bug's body.
I suppose the rib cage performs a similar task in human anatomy by protecting the heart, but I'd like more than a few thin bones over that most vital of organs. Watching the ladybug, I wished I had an exoskeleton.
Why do we have bones covered by mushy skin, anyway? I know, there are lots of reasons. The human body is a system designed to work a certain way. But wouldn't it be better not to have to worry about and care for this skin? Wrinkling, burning, washing, bleeding, bandaging. Skin is permeable. Skin is vulnerable.
Vulnerability, there's the rub. The idea of an exoskeleton appealed to me not as much physically as emotionally. The heart is so easily damaged, I'd like to shield mine under a hard shell. I could uncover it when I wanted to, and then draw it in to keep it safe.
It didn't take me long to realize it's a good thing I don't have elytra or an exoskeleton. Given the option, I'd never expose my heart.
I'm pretty sure one reason we have this permeable skin covering is we are supposed to let others in. We were designed to want and need people, and if this makes us vulnerable to pain, God must have intended pain to draw us to Himself.
A ladybug's protection is on the outside of its body. Skin is a poor defense against the onslaught of love, loneliness, wonder and disappointment that life wages; but my strength, like my bones, is inside. The Designer of insects, humans, and both varieties of skeletons lives in me.
What struck me is the way the ladybug is designed, with a brittle exoskeleton covering its fragile wings. What a good idea, I thought, to protect what is probably the most important part of the bug's body.
I suppose the rib cage performs a similar task in human anatomy by protecting the heart, but I'd like more than a few thin bones over that most vital of organs. Watching the ladybug, I wished I had an exoskeleton.
Why do we have bones covered by mushy skin, anyway? I know, there are lots of reasons. The human body is a system designed to work a certain way. But wouldn't it be better not to have to worry about and care for this skin? Wrinkling, burning, washing, bleeding, bandaging. Skin is permeable. Skin is vulnerable.
Vulnerability, there's the rub. The idea of an exoskeleton appealed to me not as much physically as emotionally. The heart is so easily damaged, I'd like to shield mine under a hard shell. I could uncover it when I wanted to, and then draw it in to keep it safe.
It didn't take me long to realize it's a good thing I don't have elytra or an exoskeleton. Given the option, I'd never expose my heart.
I'm pretty sure one reason we have this permeable skin covering is we are supposed to let others in. We were designed to want and need people, and if this makes us vulnerable to pain, God must have intended pain to draw us to Himself.
A ladybug's protection is on the outside of its body. Skin is a poor defense against the onslaught of love, loneliness, wonder and disappointment that life wages; but my strength, like my bones, is inside. The Designer of insects, humans, and both varieties of skeletons lives in me.
Blue Feather
I found this feather. It's small and indigo blue. I want to stick it in my hair like a Comanche, but my dad impressed on me at a young age that birds are dirty, just like the saying. Birds have mites, he said. You don't want mites living in your hair, do you? Go wash your hands.
My feather has a speck, a tiny white thing. I suspect mites are invisible to the naked eye but I squint at it warily.
The feather is shaped like an oar, dyed from continually dipping in waves of blue. The bird it belonged to sailed the sky. Maybe that's why I see an oar and a mast, its sails partly furled.
If I were a mite--no, if I were as small as a mite I'd cling to this feather and let the wind carry my vessel away. If it blew west I would ride over plains, over new wheat billowing wave after wave; if east, straight to the sea.
I'd find a shell with a hole in which to place the feather, and with a bit of sea glass for a rudder, I'd push off for the blue unknown, that distant indigo line, the boundary of the world.
I'm not mite-sized, the feather can't transport me anywhere; I can't even wear it in my hair. I should wash my hands, but instead I stand rolling the feather between my forefinger and thumb, watching it flash electrically blue as light collects on its razor fine edge.
This feather doesn't belong to the brown and green earth. It is a piece of sky, a knife used to cut the air.
I hold the feather high then sweep it in a downward arc. Space whistles over and around its perfect symmetry. It cuts through the haze, that blur obscuring my sight and I see a clean line curling down like paper, exposing a sliver of brilliant light behind the sky.
I ease through the opening and step onto a plateau where I stand with my toes touching the edge of the world, my head thrown back toward the sun's Sun. The softest wind that ever blew rifles the feather in my hand.
My feather has a speck, a tiny white thing. I suspect mites are invisible to the naked eye but I squint at it warily.
The feather is shaped like an oar, dyed from continually dipping in waves of blue. The bird it belonged to sailed the sky. Maybe that's why I see an oar and a mast, its sails partly furled.
If I were a mite--no, if I were as small as a mite I'd cling to this feather and let the wind carry my vessel away. If it blew west I would ride over plains, over new wheat billowing wave after wave; if east, straight to the sea.
I'd find a shell with a hole in which to place the feather, and with a bit of sea glass for a rudder, I'd push off for the blue unknown, that distant indigo line, the boundary of the world.
I'm not mite-sized, the feather can't transport me anywhere; I can't even wear it in my hair. I should wash my hands, but instead I stand rolling the feather between my forefinger and thumb, watching it flash electrically blue as light collects on its razor fine edge.
This feather doesn't belong to the brown and green earth. It is a piece of sky, a knife used to cut the air.
I hold the feather high then sweep it in a downward arc. Space whistles over and around its perfect symmetry. It cuts through the haze, that blur obscuring my sight and I see a clean line curling down like paper, exposing a sliver of brilliant light behind the sky.
I ease through the opening and step onto a plateau where I stand with my toes touching the edge of the world, my head thrown back toward the sun's Sun. The softest wind that ever blew rifles the feather in my hand.
Monday, April 21
Catherine, Cyclists, and the Sanctity of Life
Have you noticed what wide berths drivers give cyclists when passing? Even if a car is approaching on the other side of the road, a driver will cross the yellow line to go around the bicycle. This isn't strictly necessary. Cyclists hug the edge of the road and don't take up much space. They would probably be safe if drivers gave them half as much space.I'd never risk it, though. Going over the yellow line to pass them is a precaution I always take, just to be on the safe side. Compared to my car, a person on a bike is small and fragile. One tap from a vehicle, even if it's moving relatively slowly, could take a cyclists life. The danger is too great, the consequences too severe to risk anything less than great caution. I'm concerned not only for the cyclist's safety, but also with the guilt and punishment I'd be subject to for causing injury or taking the life of another person.
The care people exercise in passing cyclists stands in stark contrast to our society's disregard for unborn children. Both are fragile and vulnerable, yet I wonder how many cautious drivers I've observed support "a woman's right to choose"?
What merits this juxtaposition between caution and disregard for life? Independence versus dependence on another life? Some special status incurred in passing the birth canal? Past life experience as opposed to future life experience? Is it simply the absence of law protecting the unborn versus the impending gavel, the possibility of manslaughter?
I heard a terrible, wonderful story this weekend. I occasionally run into the mother of an old friend who gives me updates on how her daughter is doing. Some of you might remember meeting Catherine and hanging out with her at the Brown's. She's married now and is expecting a baby girl. The baby was diagnosed with a disease that makes bones brittle. Ultrasounds showed that the baby broke 3 bones in 5 months, just moving inutero.
Five doctors who were advising Catherine and her husband met with them and told them they ought to abort the baby. They didn't gently suggest abortion, they pressed the couple to do it, saying there was no sensible alternative. The baby would not have a normal life, Catherine and her husband would not have a normal life. One of the doctors said his son has special needs and his wife has not had a life in twelve years.
Catherine and Jason determined to have their child. They asked people to pray. God heard. Tests show that the disease is gone and the latest ultrasound shows no broken bones. The medical professionals say it was a misdiagnosis. The gavel will probably never fall on those doctors' actions, but I believe in the end they will have to answer to the Judge. Personally, I'd rather face a charge of manslaughter.
Thursday, April 17
Primavera
I could love Spring for the seedlings alone, but there's also peepers peeping, birds being loopy, daffodils dressed to kill and the sun turning warm and buttery...and winter being just a memory
Tuesday, April 15
Day Made
5:30 am Watched 20 deer grazing, fawns gamboling in Mrs. M's field. Peepers, squelching hooves only sound
6:30 am Read "Satisfy us in the morning with your steadfast love, that we may rejoice and be glad all our days." Ps. 90:14
6:45 am Rediscovered great shirt in closet. Spangly, blousy number from Goodwill. Inner gypsy reveled
7:50 am Passed HVAC or Welding instructor in hall at MCC. Smiled. Received smile and wink
10:40 am Weaselled out of Interpersonal Dynamics final evaluation without hardly trying. Scheduling conflict, one more week to prepare.
10:50 am Gas pump stopped on $40.00 exactly. Refrained from screaming, "Jackpot!" Hoped nickels might pour out of machine
12:45 - 1:15 pm Approximately one third of skin surface lapped up benefits of Vitamin D
1:15 pm onward TBA. More good to come
Monday, April 14
Meals on Wheels and the Potter's Wheel
I feel badly for anyone who has to work with people all day, I really do. One of the benefits of my job is that it requires engaging in conversation with only three people on a regular basis. One of those peeps is the Meals-On-Wheels guy. He kindly delivers Mr. S's lunch five days a week. He is gregarious and affable, he stays less than 5 minutes and he bears food, all reasons why I shouldn't mind seeing him. Yet, I do, there's no getting around it. I don't dislike like him; I just don't like him being here.
Here's why:
1. He calls Mr. S Charlie, Chuck, bother, bro, buddy, dude and anything else that pops into his aging hippie head. Those names are OK for the stoners you hung out with in college, DUDE, but this in an 88 year old gentleman. Show some respect.
2. Every day he knocks "shave and a haircut, two bits" on the door. For some reason I hate it. I cringe as he ascends the stairs, waiting like Damocles for the blow to fall. Sometimes when I see his vehicle coming I lunge for the door, wrenching it open before he has time to lay an offending knuckle on it. However, this surprises him and may elicit a word-we-don't say-here, which brings me to the next point.
3. He uses my Savior's name in a bad way. I don't like that.
4. Every day he says "How are you?" twice. Every day I answer, "Good. How are you?" Twice. Is that necessary? Couldn't we dispense with that? I should throw in "I stashed my grandmother's body in the stairwell" just to see if he notices. One of the presidents said something similar in a receiving line. It's a good story, too bad I forgot the details.
5. He calls me "kiddo" and "hon". Grrrrrr!
6. I like peace, calm and quiet and have an antipathy for anything that disrupts the aforementioned. A more pleasant intrusion is less subject to resentment, but no intrusion is immune. We used to have a different MOW driver, a woman who I liked a lot. At one time she lived in the Alaskan wilderness and grew her own food. She wore great shoes. Even so, her arrival was a little ripple on an otherwise smooth pond.
I hope this doesn't mean I'm a bad person; which is to say, I hope people don't think less of me. But hey, while I'm on the Potter's wheel I might as well exploit my imperfections for literary inspiration. Oh, and if you're in the neighborhood feel free to drop in :)
Here's why:
1. He calls Mr. S Charlie, Chuck, bother, bro, buddy, dude and anything else that pops into his aging hippie head. Those names are OK for the stoners you hung out with in college, DUDE, but this in an 88 year old gentleman. Show some respect.
2. Every day he knocks "shave and a haircut, two bits" on the door. For some reason I hate it. I cringe as he ascends the stairs, waiting like Damocles for the blow to fall. Sometimes when I see his vehicle coming I lunge for the door, wrenching it open before he has time to lay an offending knuckle on it. However, this surprises him and may elicit a word-we-don't say-here, which brings me to the next point.
3. He uses my Savior's name in a bad way. I don't like that.
4. Every day he says "How are you?" twice. Every day I answer, "Good. How are you?" Twice. Is that necessary? Couldn't we dispense with that? I should throw in "I stashed my grandmother's body in the stairwell" just to see if he notices. One of the presidents said something similar in a receiving line. It's a good story, too bad I forgot the details.
5. He calls me "kiddo" and "hon". Grrrrrr!
6. I like peace, calm and quiet and have an antipathy for anything that disrupts the aforementioned. A more pleasant intrusion is less subject to resentment, but no intrusion is immune. We used to have a different MOW driver, a woman who I liked a lot. At one time she lived in the Alaskan wilderness and grew her own food. She wore great shoes. Even so, her arrival was a little ripple on an otherwise smooth pond.
I hope this doesn't mean I'm a bad person; which is to say, I hope people don't think less of me. But hey, while I'm on the Potter's wheel I might as well exploit my imperfections for literary inspiration. Oh, and if you're in the neighborhood feel free to drop in :)
Don't Panic!
Going through an entryway recently, I freaked out. It was dark. No air was moving and the entry was a small space. The exit, a door leading from the mudroom to the garage, was in front of me but the sliding bolt wasn't moving. I panicked and starting clawing at the door. I probably looked possessed, or like one of those soon-to-be-chopped blondes in horror movies.I got the door open and tumbled into the garage gulping, gasping and shaky. Then I remembered claustrophobia. It happens so infrequently that I forget what it's like, how horrible it is to be in the grasp of an irrational, undeniable urge to get out, get out, GET OUT NOW.
Claustrophobia makes me feel helpless because I can't control it. At least, I never have before, and one of the reasons is its always unexpected. If I knew where claustrophobia was going to occur I'd be prepared and maybe it wouldn't happen. I was turning that theory over in my head when I began to wonder what other panic-inducing situations I could handle if I were prepared.
Naturally, I thought of snakes in cars. In a No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency book, Precious Ramotswe runs over a large snake in the road. Several miles later, she realizes that she didn't see it's carcass in the rearview mirror as she drove away. That gave her cause to worry, and for good reason: the snake had writhed into the undercarriage of her car and could easily have slithered inside.
Yikes and yikes. Of course this is something I have to worry about. Snakes and I are not friends. There's this natural enmity thing I blame Eve for, and she didn't even have to drive a car that may or may not have a snake in it. Anyhow, the point is, I'm working on a plan so I'll be prepared if a snake slithers between my feet while I'm driving.
Friday, April 11
Men, Women, and Fire from Heaven
This just might be the funniest passage in the Bible. I can't remember having read or heard it until just recently, and it made me laugh right out loud.
Luke 9: 51 - 56 As the time approached for him to be taken up to heaven, Jesus resolutely set out for Jerusalem. And he sent messengers on ahead, who went into a Samaritan village to get things ready for him; but the people there did not welcome him, because he was heading for Jerusalem. When the disciples James and John saw this, they asked, "Lord, do you want us to call fire down from heaven to destroy them?" But Jesus turned and rebuked them, and they went to another village.
Zowie, James and John were vengeful little weasels! I don't know what's funnier: them thinking they could actually call fire from Heaven or that they were all ready to destroy the village they set out to save. My first thought was that they were just like 4th graders. I was also reminded of watching a little boy build a structure out of Legos or something. He'll be all exact, get it just right, then shazaam! he destroys it in one fell swoop. He enjoys it so much that destruction itself might be the purpose of construction.
What makes it interesting is the contrast between boys and girls. If the kid has a sister, she'll be eyeing the establishment as a new home for Miss Bunny, planning where to put the dish set and how many of Miss Bunny's friends will fit inside.
This is not to say females are nicer than males. Had Jesus' disciples been women I'll bet they would've asked Him if they could inflict the Samaritans with boils, or send moths to eat their clothing. But they wouldn't have wanted to destroy the town kit and kaboodle. Women know vengeance. It's called, "Make 'em suffer!"
I wonder why men want to destroy things. Is it just nature? Do all of them have this penchant? Our culture discourages destructive tendencies, but maybe deep down every guy would like to get his hands on a missile or two, a wrecking ball or at least a good, solid sledgehammer.
Luke 9: 51 - 56 As the time approached for him to be taken up to heaven, Jesus resolutely set out for Jerusalem. And he sent messengers on ahead, who went into a Samaritan village to get things ready for him; but the people there did not welcome him, because he was heading for Jerusalem. When the disciples James and John saw this, they asked, "Lord, do you want us to call fire down from heaven to destroy them?" But Jesus turned and rebuked them, and they went to another village.
Zowie, James and John were vengeful little weasels! I don't know what's funnier: them thinking they could actually call fire from Heaven or that they were all ready to destroy the village they set out to save. My first thought was that they were just like 4th graders. I was also reminded of watching a little boy build a structure out of Legos or something. He'll be all exact, get it just right, then shazaam! he destroys it in one fell swoop. He enjoys it so much that destruction itself might be the purpose of construction.
What makes it interesting is the contrast between boys and girls. If the kid has a sister, she'll be eyeing the establishment as a new home for Miss Bunny, planning where to put the dish set and how many of Miss Bunny's friends will fit inside.
This is not to say females are nicer than males. Had Jesus' disciples been women I'll bet they would've asked Him if they could inflict the Samaritans with boils, or send moths to eat their clothing. But they wouldn't have wanted to destroy the town kit and kaboodle. Women know vengeance. It's called, "Make 'em suffer!"
I wonder why men want to destroy things. Is it just nature? Do all of them have this penchant? Our culture discourages destructive tendencies, but maybe deep down every guy would like to get his hands on a missile or two, a wrecking ball or at least a good, solid sledgehammer.
Thursday, April 10
Laughter, Cucumber
Dad: Twelve pages of mortgage forclosures in the paper today. That means about (counting) a hundred houses!Me: That's depressing.
Dad: What are you doing?
Me: Taking a picture of a cucumber.
(incredulous laughter)
It's pretty. It has drops of water coming out the end.
(more laughter)
What, that doesn't convince you that its picture worthy?
Dad: It's not unusual. Most things bleed if you cut them.
Me: Hmmpf.
Dad: Look at all the robins. That means we're going to have robins nesting around here.
Me: Don't we always?
Dad: We do, but they're dying.
Me: Uh...
Dad: All of the pesticides and things we're using are killing them off. Your mother got a letter from someone recently who said we were lucky to have birds. There aren't any birds where she lives anymore. I can't remember who that was...
Me: Well, that stinks.
Dad: Blooming state police...I ought to give them a piece of my mind. (picking up phone)
Me: What did they do?
Dad: They pushed my car over the edge of the river.
Me: What?!
Dad: My car broke down and I went down to the river to get some water for it and a state trooper pushed it over the edge with a bulldozer.
(staring)
I told him my brother-in-law was a statie and I was going to tell him about it.
(confused silence)
It was a dream.
Me: Ohhh!
(laughter)
I was like, brother-in-law--and you had the telephone in your hand--!
Dad: I'm calling Kenny.
(laughter)
Saturday, April 5
Squirrel Hybrids
Because English needs more "sq" words.
Squirrel & hamster = squamster
Squirrel & ferret = squerret
Squirrel & weasel = squeasel
Squirrel & guinea pig = squinea pig
Squirrel & chinchilla = squinchilla
Squirrel & gerbil = squerbil
Squirrel & kinkajou = squinkajou
Squirrel & wallaby = squallaby
Squirrel & hamster = squamster
Squirrel & ferret = squerret
Squirrel & weasel = squeasel
Squirrel & guinea pig = squinea pig
Squirrel & chinchilla = squinchilla
Squirrel & gerbil = squerbil
Squirrel & kinkajou = squinkajou
Squirrel & wallaby = squallaby
Monday, February 18
The Madman and the King
Headlights swept the driveway, revealing mist curling up from the ice and big drops of rain that covered it in a silvery slickness. A white Bronco slowed at my approach. It was one of the neighbors and she was looking for her son. He was insane and he had wandered off again. Had I seen him? No, I told her, I had not.
I hurried into the house, shaking rain off my coat.
"I'm home", I yelled.
"Good! We were worried", my father answered from the second floor. I regretted giving my parents cause to worry and wondered what had possessed me to stay out until 1 AM on a night like this.
I paused, my hand on the doorknob. A half formed concern entered my mind. The door was not locked when I entered the house. Perhaps I should check the basement for--suddenly, I knew he was there. My hand tightened and froze on the doorknob. As he stepped out of the shadows I was paralyzed by fear.
The mad man's eyes were pits of darkness, a black so deep they fairly shone with the antithesis of light. He clutched a hammer.
I hoped the dog would do something to protect me, but it was too friendly. It wagged its tail and bounded between the crazed man and myself. The dog's movement had a frantic energy. Perhaps it sensed something was wrong, but the golden retriever would never attack a person.
As the man advanced I tried to scream. Once, twice, three times, but my throat was frozen, the breath locked in my lungs. A voice in my head said: If you do not scream, you will die. No one will know.
With all my strength I forced air upwards, straining against the anvil weight on my chest. It squeezed through my vocal chords, out of my wooden jaws.
"Aaa-iii--eeee!"
Screaming out loud jolted me out of sleep, but in the split second of waking, terror gripped my entire being. I did not know what was real and what was not. In that fraction of time, the mad man was outside my bedroom door.
I expected to hear my parents rushing up the stairs to see what was wrong, and was crushed to realize that they hadn't heard me.
You're twenty-eight, said a derisive voice.
I'm still afraid, I answered.
Though I was fully awake, shadows of fear still lingered. My feet were on solid ground but fear doesn't always submit to reality. It's a lie, it comes from our Enemy.
"Jesus, King of angels..."
Some people say religion is a crutch, a prop for our human frailty. I agree with them. Swinging the censer, lighting candles, chanting to exorcise fear of the unknown is a crutch.
Jehovah is not a crutch. He is a Heavenly Father who never sleeps and is always ready to banish His children's nightmares with His presence.
I'm His daughter, it's a relationship. That's what I'd like to say to the religion-is-a-crutch people who equate Christianity with religion. And I'd ask them if they ever woke from a bad dream, terrified, heart laboring, wanting their mom or dad.
"Yeah?" I'd say. "At your age?"
I hurried into the house, shaking rain off my coat.
"I'm home", I yelled.
"Good! We were worried", my father answered from the second floor. I regretted giving my parents cause to worry and wondered what had possessed me to stay out until 1 AM on a night like this.
I paused, my hand on the doorknob. A half formed concern entered my mind. The door was not locked when I entered the house. Perhaps I should check the basement for--suddenly, I knew he was there. My hand tightened and froze on the doorknob. As he stepped out of the shadows I was paralyzed by fear.
The mad man's eyes were pits of darkness, a black so deep they fairly shone with the antithesis of light. He clutched a hammer.
I hoped the dog would do something to protect me, but it was too friendly. It wagged its tail and bounded between the crazed man and myself. The dog's movement had a frantic energy. Perhaps it sensed something was wrong, but the golden retriever would never attack a person.
As the man advanced I tried to scream. Once, twice, three times, but my throat was frozen, the breath locked in my lungs. A voice in my head said: If you do not scream, you will die. No one will know.
With all my strength I forced air upwards, straining against the anvil weight on my chest. It squeezed through my vocal chords, out of my wooden jaws.
"Aaa-iii--eeee!"
Screaming out loud jolted me out of sleep, but in the split second of waking, terror gripped my entire being. I did not know what was real and what was not. In that fraction of time, the mad man was outside my bedroom door.
I expected to hear my parents rushing up the stairs to see what was wrong, and was crushed to realize that they hadn't heard me.
You're twenty-eight, said a derisive voice.
I'm still afraid, I answered.
Though I was fully awake, shadows of fear still lingered. My feet were on solid ground but fear doesn't always submit to reality. It's a lie, it comes from our Enemy.
"Jesus, King of angels..."
Some people say religion is a crutch, a prop for our human frailty. I agree with them. Swinging the censer, lighting candles, chanting to exorcise fear of the unknown is a crutch.
Jehovah is not a crutch. He is a Heavenly Father who never sleeps and is always ready to banish His children's nightmares with His presence.
I'm His daughter, it's a relationship. That's what I'd like to say to the religion-is-a-crutch people who equate Christianity with religion. And I'd ask them if they ever woke from a bad dream, terrified, heart laboring, wanting their mom or dad.
"Yeah?" I'd say. "At your age?"
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