At the Contented Cow
So I’m a fundamentalist to my new friends. They, gaily secular, ask, have I evangelized? And I reply, I have. Oh, and a miracle, have I seen one of those too? It’s true, I half-sigh, and tell of the time: I fell asleep at the wheel on River Road, and somehow took unconscious turns, and followed a path not my own, and awoke to a minor crash and did not die. They nod and thank my vulnerability, which strikes me as odd, since I’d just claimed my time was held up by Eternity. They, scholars of a certain Dane, have read of the same in complex books, written under cover of alien names and grammatic tricks. But in talk over beers, simply spoken and heard, my words seem weak, foolish, lowly. Still it may be an edifying, holy word, to those who wake up after the impact; to those who live.
