The Tourist

The Man in the Black Suit

The Tourist

 

Never purchase food from your venue of lodging.  A rule of tradecraft.  Most motels – especially those that assist you in remaining under the radar – have laughably inefficient security systems.  If they have any at all.

The man named Jameson had returned Dr. Henning’s rented car, and now he was a tourist making use of the DVB: Dresden’s public transportation system.  The tourist had taken a tram to the commercial area by the river Elbe.  He’d purchased lunch at a sandwich shop, and was now sitting on a bench overlooking the gorgeous waterway, gawking at the sights and colors of the city.

            “Gawking” was how he came to affirm that two men were watching him intently.  The tourist’s eyes were sweeping his surroundings, taking in the shop fronts and the Baroque spires of the looming Cathedral Hofkirche, where the heart of King August the strong was kept.  Large portions of the Church’s masonry had been destroyed during Dresden’s firebombing, but the East German government had paid for extensive reconstruction in the eighties.  Now it was a massive tourist trap.  And some of those tourists drew followers of their own.

Even when the tourist’s eyes picked out the figures he was looking for, they didn’t cease sweeping the streets.  He gave no inclination that he’d noticed the watchers.  They weren’t going to try anything in a public place.  But the tourist needed them to try something.

            Tossing his sandwich bag in a trash bin, he wandered away from the river, browsing the window displays of nearby shops.  These men had somehow known where he was staying.  There’d only been one follower at first, and eventually he’d switched off with a second.  A classic, professional technique.  But their actions were too similar, their presence too persistent, and their acting too bad for the tourist to be fooled.  His gawking persona enabled him to throw broad glances at his surroundings, effectively keeping tabs on the followers.  They’d joined up, which likely meant they were waiting for their chance to make a move.  The tourist intended to give them one.  He needed information.

            Wandering into an alley between two shops, he created an opportunity so perfect that the thugs wouldn’t be able to resist.
 

            There was a simple problem, however.  They did resist.  They were no longer following.



The Contract

The Man in the Black Suit

The Contract

Jameson chided himself for the loss of control.  Revealing frustration was unprofessional.

"My reasons for turning down the initial contract are irrelevant.  But I will explain my motivation in coming to you.

"My profession isn't far removed from others.  Connections and bylines are essential in any business.  Big names get big jobs, because their reputations are bankable.  Costumers, you understand, generally pay for the brand over the service."

"Well, your customer courtesy leaves something to be desired."

Aprill had lost the last shreds of professionalism.  Jameson shrugged off her comment.

"I've been working small jobs.  Enough for a living, but I could expand.  High profile cases such as your situation are a good basis on which to construct a reputation."

The distant wailing of police sirens touched their ears.  Jameson stood.

“I will be leaving now.  Provide a reason that your bodyguard wasn’t able to give the police his statement.  The contract I intend to carry out for you involves more than just immobilizing that assassin.  If you hire me, I will track down the persons responsible for this attempt, and I will neutralize them in such a way that no one will ever touch you again, and my services will become instantly associated with quality and professionalism.  After that, I will be able to choose the jobs I desire rather than scrabbling for whatever work I can find.  I’ve been waiting for an opportunity such as this.”

He handed a slip of paper to Benedict, then left the room.

Benedict looked at the paper and massaged his forehead tiredly.  “It’s a mess,” he muttered.

“What’d he give you?”  Aprill demanded.

“A way to contact him.”

“Well?  Are you going to do it?”

A desperate idea suddenly crept into Benedict’s mind.  He was a rat running circles in a maze he’d assumed to be escapeless.  But the rat had just discovered one last alley, and he was scurrying down it for all he was worth, hoping it was an exit he was headed towards and not another dead end.

Benedict dialed his mobile, ignoring Aprill.  He waited, anxiously.

“Rook?  Hi.  Yes, a man just tried to take my life, and . . . yes, yes, I’m fine . . . I need you to find out what you can about the man who saved me.  No, you heard me right.  No, not my attacker; the man who stopped the assassin.  He said his name was Jameson.  You can probably find some visuals on the security cameras.  Find out what you can about him.  Yes, that’s right.  And Rook?  I need to know where he’s staying in Dresden.”

"God Woke," by Stan Lee

This poem is the work of Stan Lee, creator of Marvel comics.  He has allowed it to be distributed freely over the internet; I do not claim any rights to its text or ideas.  

This poem grieves me.  Because the God who Stan Lee seems to observe is not the God who I know.  He's not the conversant God, not the loving God, not the God who does indeed answer prayer as He reveals His presence in human lives.  Certainly not the God who sacrificed His own Son for a flawed humanity, but gives humanity the choice whether to love Him back and accept His gift.  It makes me sad that Mr. Lee's experiences have led him to the conclusion of these ideas.  But most of all, it grieves me that not everyone has experienced the relationship of crushing grace without which I cannot imagine living.

"God woke"
He stretched and yawned and looked around
Haunted by a thought unfound
A vagrant thought that would not die
He rose and scanned the endless sky
He probed the is, he traced the was
He sought the yet to be
And then he found the planet Earth, the half remembered planet Earth
Steeped in pain and tragedy
And all at once he knew
He saw the world that he had wrought to suit his master plan
And then he saw the changes brought by the heedless hand of man
Man, so frail, so small
Yet lord of all
Striving, thriving
Hustling, bustling
Sowing, growing, ever going
Ever learning, never knowing
Less than righteous, less than just
And in the end condemned to dust
He heard the man-sounds everywhere
The shots, the clangs, the roars, the bangs
The clatter, clammer, guns and hammer
And then he found to his despair
The haunting hollow sound of prayer
A billion bodies ever bending
A billion voices never ending
“Give me…”, “Get me…”
“Grant me…”, “Let me…”
“Love me”, “Free me”
“Hear me”, “See me”
While he pondered, watched and waited
Endlessly they supplicated
Chanting, ranting
Moaning, groaning
Sighing, crying
Cheating, lying
But towards what goal? What grand direction?
This pious tide of genuflection
To please their lord, to please their god
He raised his head and laughed, laughed hard
At man, the enigma, calling for aid
Ever demanding, ever afraid
Man, the enigma, bewailing his fate
Yet plagued by inaction till ever too late
Paradoxical man, so fearful of death
Yet squandering life and lavishing breath
Wasting his hours, diluting his days
Accomplishing nothing while he prays and he prays
Hypocritical man, pompous and preening
Mouthing his rote
Just from the throat
Words without feeling
Sound without meaning
Such arrogance, such grand conceit
To think one’s self somehow elite
To demand each prayer be heard with care
While painfully, vainfully all unaware
One’s omnipotent, infinite, absolute lord
Is bored
God frowned
How dare they believe that The Way and The Light
Can be constantly badgered from morning till night?
By what senseless standard? By what senseless rule?
Do they treat their creator as if he’s their tool
While proclaiming his glory, do they think him a fool?
Who else but a fool with a cosmos to savour
Would be bound just to Earth granting boon, granting favour
Who else but a fool with a cosmos unfolding
Would linger with man ever praising and scolding
Who else but a fool with a cosmos to stray in
Would conceive him an ant-hill and like a prisoner stay in
Who else but a fool would create mortal men
And then be expected to tend them, mend them,
Cry for them, die for them over and over and over again
God sighed
I gave them minds as I recall, it was so long ago
I gave them minds that they might use to choose, to think, to know
For the hapless weak, must needs be wise, if they would prove their worth
And then I gave them paradise, the fertile verdant Earth
At first I found the plan was sound and somewhat entertaining
But once begun, the deed now done, my interest started waning
The seed thus sown
The twig now grown
I left them there
Alone
Alone, among the planets and the stars
And the endless fathomless all
Alone, bathed by light and clothed by dark
Midst the vague and the vast and the small
Alone
Alone as I have ever been, as I shall ever be
Why do they not accept it? How else can they be free?
Why do they not accept it? Why do they search for me?
Why?
When their own little lives are so barren and brief
When all of their pleasures are tarnished by grief
In the space of a heartbeat their present is past
They cling to each moment, but no moment can last
When the end comes so quickly and they soon are forgot
Why do they search for that which is not?
Like unto children lost in the night
They search for a God to guide them
Like unto children huddled in fright
They must have their God beside them
But what sort of children, from cradle to grave
Would grant him obiance and yet make him their slave?
They have conjured a heaven and there he must stay
Ever responsive, be it night, be it day
He must love and forgive them and comply when they pray
Ever attentive, never to stray
And like unto children in their childish zeal
They worship their dream thinking fantasy real
God pondered
He, The Be All, The End All, The Will and The Way
The Power, The Glory, The Night and The Day
The Word and The Law, The Fount and The Plan
Lord God Almighty, was baffled by man
He was puzzled by the paradox
By the irony there in
If only he could show them
But where would he begin?
How to make them understand, how to make them see
How to make them recognize their own insanity
They live for gain and they strive in vain
To circumvent their death
But all the gold and wealth untold
Won’t buy an extra breath
They bestow acclaim and they shower fame
On those who rise to power
But those who care, who love and share
Are forgot within the hour
They’re prone to fight, to use their might
For whatever flag they cherish
But those who cry “To arms” don’t die
Their young are sent to perish
Yes, all unsung, they kill their young
Who fall and die and then they cry
But why?
A different house of worship? A different colour skin?
A piece of land that’s coveted and the drums of war begin
Only death can triumph, there’s no place left to hide
And still the madmen ply their trade claiming God is on their side
Of all who live, who crawl and creep
Who take and give, who wake and sleep
Who run, who stand, who dot the land from shore to shore
Man, only man, none but man, wages war
Only man, eternally killing
Only man, infernally willing
To concede himself grace
To bury his race
Only man, earnestly praying to his god as he’s slaying and piously saying
As the battles increase
He does what he must for his motives are just
The mayhem, the carnage, the slaughter won’t cease
But no need to worry, God’s in his corner, he’s killing for peace
Man
His greed, his hate, his crime, his war
The Lord, our God, could bear no more
He looked his last at man so small
So lately risen, so soon to fall
He looked his last and had to know
Whose fault this anguish, this mortal woe?
Had man failed maker? Or maker, man?
Who was the planner? And whose the plan?
He looked his last then turned aside
He knew the answer, that’s why God cried

The Status Quo

The Man in the Black Suit

The Status Quo

The attacker ignored his dislocated elbow, grasping his stomach instead.  He collapsed.  Just to be certain, the man named Jameson kicked the stiletto safely out of reach.  It spun across the marble.

      There was no danger of a second attack, however.  The man in the gladiator mask was writhing, pounding at his stomach in agony.  Blood dribbled from his mouth.  Then, abruptly, the contortions ceased.

      Jameson rolled the man’s head over with his foot.  The eyes were rigid.  Warily, the man named Jameson knelt, placing two fingers to the throat.  No pulse.

      Jameson stood, satisfied.

      “He . . . collapsed?”  Aprill was asking a doubtful question, unbelieving.

      “I poisoned him.”

      “Oh, damn.”  She gulped hard.

       “Now, it is time for us to leave.” 

      The security guards were congregating, staring uncertainly at the body.

      “Mr. Benedict,” Jameson said, “I think you will now listen to what I have to say.  Take care of this.”

      Benedict was shaken, but surprisingly compliant.

      “That man tried to kill me.  Please, clean it up . . .” he gestured at the body “. . . and inform me when the police arrive.  I need a minute in private.  This is quite a shock.  If not for my bodyguard . . . .”

      “Of course, sir.  Please, follow me.”

      A security man led them to a private room.  The moment the door clicked shut, Aprill started spewing words.

"You probably saved our lives.  We're grateful, of course.  But it's illogical!  If you're some contract-killer like you claim, then why turn down an assignment to kill my father? Money is money.  And why warn us?"

Jameson observed her disapprovingly.  She was businesslike, but without a grasp of the status quo.

"You should be waiting for my explanation rather than demanding answers from me."

Aprill’s outrage mounted, but Benedict touched her shoulder.  "Honey," he said quietly, "let's hear him out."  Benedict shook his head, trying to clear away the last dregs of inebriation.

Shadow of Deceit, by Becca Anderson

Here's a review I wrote for The Aboite Independent http://v1.aboiteindependent.com
This review will also be published in the spring 2014 edition of Church Libraries, a publication of the Evangelical Church Library Association.  http://www.eclalibraries.org/  I recently had advanced access to the issue. :)

Book Review 011614 SHADOW OF DECEIT  
By Becca Anderson
OakTara, 978-1-60290-075-2, PB, 247 pages, $15.26

            Casey Ellis is discontented with her Christian walk, but the price of seeking truth could be her soul.  After stumbling upon a group of believers striving to emulate the early church, she’s certain God is calling her to join them.  However, shadows are mingled with the group’s good intentions, and it becomes uncertain whether Casey will find freedom from physical and spiritual ensnarement.

            This book offers a view of religious manipulation. There’s perhaps too much prejudice against Pentecostal-style denominations, but there’s also an important warning against unscriptural practices within well-intentioned churches.  On moral ground, it’s troubling to see Casey never reprimanded for her recurrent lying, especially since she’s fighting deceit.  The book’s beginning fails to hook attention, but the plot and style quickly grow stronger.  I recommend this for leisure reading (both sexes, specifically women) and for those seeking greater knowledge of spiritual deception.  This book includes study questions.

The Gladiator

The Man in the Black Suit

The Gladiator

The man named Jameson grabbed a fistful of Benedict’s jacket and yanked him back from the swinging stiletto.  He hadn’t predicted a weapon.  But slipping one past security wouldn’t have been difficult.

      Again, Benedict’s attacker slashed viciously, but his knife cut air.  Another slash . . . .

      Grab, twist, break.

      Jameson lashed out, seizing the man’s wrist.  Leverage.  Now, twist.  He rotated his attacker’s arm until the elbow faced down.  Still clutching that wrist, Jameson drove upwards with his other hand, just behind the elbow.  Break.  There was a loud pop, and the stiletto clattered to the tile.

      The big man in the gladiator mask grunted.

Embraced by Grace

Today has been intense.

For most of today I debated about sharing this story.  It’s personal, it’s somewhat cheesy, and, in many ways, it’s embarrassing.  It also keeps growing.  However, I believe that a basic power of stories is their ability to give readers something with which to identify.  Sharing my own stories, I can’t pull punches when things get messy.  Because messy is identifiable.  If even one person is slightly encouraged by the words I share, then I guess it’s worth it, and I guess I have a responsibility to try my best.

                A good moment for your intrusion to the story would be this morning, walking with me to my 8:45 class.  I’d just completed the domestic ritual; slapping snooze a few times, eventually struggling out of bed, pulling on clothes and performing the perfunctory hygienic processes.

                Grabbing my backpack and bundling against the cold, I headed out.

                Exiting the dorm, I was half asleep.  But on my way to class, I realized how beautiful the world was.  I hope you don’t think me cliché when I describe the snow as sparkling.  But it was.  God’s honest truth.  The air was sharp and pricking, but warmer than it’d been in days.  The sunlight sloshed messily and brilliantly over everything.

                I felt embraced.

                Maybe this needs changing, but mornings don’t generally allow for much “God-time.”  I only formally sit down with my Bible right before bed.  However, I do try talking with Him throughout my day.  Personal relationship and conversation is what it’s all about.  Often, it’s just a small request or a little thanks, but today, walking between two ribs of sparking snow, reveling in God’s glory, I felt Him.

                It was mostly just a presence, but there was also an idea communicated: Luke, today is going to be a very, very good day.  But not in the way you’d expect.  And it’s going to be a crazy one.

                If you like, you can blame these emotions on euphoria from the sunshine and the fresh weather.  Before doing that, however, you should know: this was on the way to math class.

                Please don’t be annoyed, but to understand my story more fully, you must hop back to the previous night.

                During this term at school, I’m facing my old mathematical nemesis.  I’m grotesquely bad at math.  Maybe you dislike it, or maybe you know someone who dislikes it.  Most math-haters are rocket-scientists in my eyes.  Math and I have a love-hate relationship: I hate it, and it loves to torment me.  From a combination of A.D.D. and learning disabilities, everything related to the subject is excruciating.  Other kids spend twenty minutes on a cluster of problems.  I take hours.

                Understand: every word is truth when I claim special loathing for math.

                The class subject-matter is simple.  Mentally, I know it should be just as quick and easy for me as for everyone else.  People talk about it being a blow-off.  Unfortunately, my brain doesn’t see things that way.

                Struggling for hours with the simplest of concepts is downright disheartening, especially when I don’t have hours because someone else is waiting for the textbook.  Feeling stupid is almost unavoidable.  There’s also a battle with laziness as I face the constant temptation to skip more difficult problems.  Sometimes I wonder if I’m capable of thinking on the same level as others, and other times I wonder if I’m blaming the learning disabilities when actually the problem is my laziness.

                I know: struggles with math are a cheesy thing to base self-worth on.  However, listening to doubt is easy when you always feel incompetent.

                Last night, disheartened and without finishing a few questions, I went to bed around one thirty.  I spent time with God before turning out the lights.  He had some very distinctive messages for me.

                I read 1 Corinthians 12, the story relating members of the church to different but equally important body parts.  It’s a nice metaphor, but referenced so frequently that I feel it’s like a sponge, wrung out redundantly for any last drop.  God can always reveal more, however.  According to the NIV, verse 15 reads: “Now if the foot should say, ‘Because I am not a hand, I do not belong to the body,’ it would not for that reason stop being part of the body.  And if the ear should say, ‘Because I am not an eye, I do not belong to the body,’ it would not for that reason stop being part of the body.’”

                Usually, emphasis is placed on equality between the body parts.  I’d like to place it on the foot’s inferiority complex.  Foot feels that his role is insignificant, and thus views himself as substandard.  (For you feminists out there worrying about me characterizing feet as men, let’s face it: men can be heels).  Bad puns aside, God reminded me that even when I feel incapable of handling the same tasks others find easy, He gave me exactly the level of competence He wants me to have.  My math inferiority led to a host of other remembered uncertainties, but the same truth held for them all.

                This message was reinforced when I shut the Bible and opened a devotional book.  There was a story about a kid who didn’t live up to his full potential because he partied instead of working hard.  I don’t have that particular temptation, but sometimes I’m tempted to pursue my desires (or the world’s desires) for who I want to be rather than God’s desires for who He wants me to be.  That can be sin, even if the desires are fine and even good.  It can especially be sin when I know there’s no way to change specific aspects, but I dwell on them anyway.

                Let’s return to math class.

                It was the usual routine:  I did my best to follow along, but got quickly lost.  Getting lost made me discouraged.  Getting discouraged made me wish my mind worked more effectively, but I recalled the foot’s message and focused on what I could do.  Still, when my group worked on questions, I was so unconfident that I mumbled incoherently and avoided attracting attention.

                Next came chapel.  I never could’ve predicted what went with it.

                As it does three days a week, the clanging of the bell-tower summoned students to voluntary chapel.  I was just one of the stream as it flowed through buildings and across parking lots, swelling larger as it went.  Finally, the river broke against the glass face of the chapel.  Students trickled through the doors, called by the music.  From longstanding habit, I headed up to the balconies.

                The speakers were introduced, a student played a hymn on the piano, and then it was contemporary worship time.  We all stood, dutifully singing the lyrics a projector produced.

                Earlier, I'd been embraced by grace.  He embraced me again, but this time not gently.  Grace rolled over me.  He crushed me.

I don't know if others felt God in that moment.  What I know is that the music was average.  It was nice, but not enough.

Earlier, I mentioned the power of identifying with something.  That might be a partial explanation: God used the lyrics to grab me.

I wish I knew the name of that worship song, but names really don't matter.  I doubt I'd be touched the same way a second time.  However, as the lyrics resounded through the chapel, I felt God's voice.  There were words brushing every struggle of my life.  My lack of confidence.  My feelings of inferiority.  My inability to serve God with anything worthwhile.  The inferiorities melted, and I felt His unbarred acceptance of me.

Some of you know part or all of my story.  I've lost someone close to me, and there are people it’s easy to view as responsible.  I hate them, sometimes.  I've imagined confronting them, the hero frightening them into exposing their true motivations.  The problem is, deep down, I think the motivations are probably good, though I obviously disagree with the reasoning.  There will be no swooping in to save the day.  No taking them to court, no beating up thugs they send after me when I start pressing too hard.

Nonetheless.  I hate them, sometimes.

As the song lyrics washed over me, I was ashamed of that hate.  God has forgiven me so much.  So much grace.  He didn't just forgive me; He sacrificed His life for my soul.  What was I doing, thinking hate at His precious creation?

I was softly crying.  In some ways, this is embarrassing.  In others, I'm unashamed.  First my eyes watered.  Then the lyrics spoke of God's steadfast presence, His promise never to abandon me. Others leave, but He remains.  The tears overflowed the brims of my eyes, dribbling messily down my face.  I smeared them away.  Finally, I could no longer sing.  Or stand.

Overcome, I sank to my knees, facing away from others.  My tears were silent, but they shook me, and there's no way it went unnoticed. 

As an imitation writer, I love exulting the importance of words.  Words have power, but they're also fragile.  There were none I knew strong enough to place before the God of crushing grace.  So I struggled to wordlessly communicate my thankfulness and my insufficiency.

My nose was dripping, my eyes were flowing, and I didn't have a tissue.  I cleaned up as best I could.

The day wasn't over.  I hadn't met Paul.

I felt sort of worn after that, but I survived a math quiz in which I got lost, a group meeting in which I felt useless, and a four-square game that was slightly more enjoyable than most.

After my group meeting, I went for a meeting with the professor, hoping he could shed clarity on some questions I had.  I waited outside the classroom as his students finished their quiz.  While waiting, I began working on this story, which I felt nudged to chronicle.  I didn't know if I'd have the guts to finish or share it.

Students trickled from the classroom.  Some good friends greeted me.

I witnessed two students consoling each other.  One of them had tears of frustration in her eyes, telling the other that she'd never felt so stupid in her life, especially since the content was supposedly so simple.

Sound familiar?

I felt selfish for assuming I was alone in my struggles.  I was also pretty certain God wanted me to finish writing and posting this, because if I could identify with that girl's emotions, maybe others could identify with mine.  I don't know how many people will read these words, but maybe it'll help someone in a way I'll never realize.  Or maybe expressing my feelings will just help me.

The enjoyable four-square game came after the meeting with my professor.  Events progressed normally. 

That evening, I was introduced to someone named Paul.  He evidently wasn't a student, so I assumed he was visiting someone on the floor.  Needle marks were clustered on his shoulder.  Paul wore a tight tank-top and athletic shorts, and mentioned that he would soon be an engineer in the Marine Corps.  He'd fought in the MMA for a while, but had quit because he always looked like the bad guy.  He told me that girls didn't dig that.  As he sat on our couch and chatted with my roommate and I, some of his story spilled out.  Home was a hard place for him.  He didn't know anyone at our school, but someone had invited him in.  He wanted to stay a few days.  I had my doubts.

The hall director was consulted about Paul.  School policy was discussed, and Paul was told that he couldn't remain overnight.  It was a messy situation, but he didn't get mad, and he mentioned to me how surprised he was at everyone's friendliness.  I hope being kicked out didn't leave a bad taste in his mouth about Christians.  But I don't think it did.

We were sitting in someone else's room, throwing around alternatives.  That's when I felt God nudge me.

Ask if you can pray for him.

So I asked, and Paul said yes.  It didn't feel awkward, and Paul actually seemed grateful.

Later, he decided that the best option was to be taken home rather than spending a few days at a rescue mission.  He admitted there probably wouldn't be any physical violence, and he could always call the cops if events escalated.  Some guys from the floor drove him back.  Before leaving, he stopped by our room to thank us and request more prayer.  We told him we'd keep praying.

If you think about it, please pray for Paul.

I wasn’t sure how Paul’s story related to my day.  It reminded me how easy I have it.  It reminded me that even through “small” acts like praying, I can impact others.  However, there didn’t appear to be much direct correlation.

Later, I talked with one of the guys who drove Paul home, and got a little deeper into his story.  The story became much more personal.

While taking Paul back, the guys got a call from campus police.  Paul was a missing person.  They brought Paul back to campus, and the police drove him home.  Afterwards, guys pieced together that Paul had been staying at a friend’s house for over twenty-four hours prior to appearing on campus.  He’d gotten kicked out, and had been invited in by a student.

There’s nothing I can do to bring my missing family member home.  In a small way, however, I feel I had a sliver of a role in Paul being restored to his family.  Obviously, his home situation is still rough, but the fact that a missing-persons report was filed means that somebody probably cares.  In an indirect way, I identified with his story, and I’m going to keep praying for him.

My prayers center on a desire for Paul to be embraced by grace.

There were a few other events in that day; friends I spent time with, acquaintances who shared things with me.  Later, nestled beneath a mound of blankets, I reviewed them all as I lay awake.  “Today” goes on and on as God lets me witness more messes.  Many people have messy lives, but the messes come in varied forms.

If you’re looking for take-away value after all that reading, you can probably find some.  I know I learned lessons.  However, when I started clicking these words together, I didn’t have any specific principle in mind.  I view the giving of questions as more important than the speaking of answers, and I think everyone must draw his or her own conclusions from the ebbs and flows of life.  My prayer, reader, is that you’ll identify with something from the story I’ve just shared.  Maybe you can then share a story of your own with someone else.

You never know who might identify with it.