“Nothing”

  

c.2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-28)

 

Saw my ex-wife by chance

While shopping with an electric cart

I did not recognize the sight

Though her voice gave me quite a start

Her build was slight, not stout

She wanted to find out

How I had been

And I felt nothing

 

We had a dozen years of history

And married for eight

A complicated crack-up, romance and wreckage

The end did not turn out to be so great

And when we finally parted

That personality soon departed

Replaced with no clues

And I felt nothing

 

Our courtship had been intense

A quick affair and escape

Broken homes and hearts behind

We walked boldly through the garden gate

But those fantasies failed to satisfy

I soon began to realize

A trick had been played

And I felt nothing

 

That teacher of a Sunday class

Morphed into a Wiccan crone

I heard her confess a change of heart

Late at night on my cellular phone

The name she wore was there

But what identity did she wear?

A transfer of the soul

And I felt nothing

 

I recalled the days when seeing her stride

Filled me with the urge to touch

But now there was a wrinkle, wrong

I could not feel that cardiac rush

A flatline pulse kept me dead

Not a tick of lust in the heart or head

Her memory had faded

And I felt nothing

 

Perhaps the lack of love I know

Is better for a guide to grasp

Decoupled from the princess bride

No longer there to caress or clasp

She came and left at a rapid speed

Left me hobbled on my knees

But wiser in the end

And I felt nothing

 

When she left the shopkeeper’s lair

I had to wonder about our meet

It seemed impossibly odd to think

That we had once taken vows, complete

In a church with lace and frills

A sanctuary up on the hill

Her wedding ring soon pawned

And I felt nothing

 

A dozen years and more have passed

Long enough to give me pause

A black cat purred where she used to lie

I got the sharp edge of her claws

I felt foolish, a sense of loss

Stammering stupidly at the cost

Of a whirlwind chase

Yes, I felt nothing

“Apathy”

 

 

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-26)

 

 

Taking stock of this ‘n that

A loudmouth lump in a red, ball cap

Words fly like motocross

From duck lips dripping with BBQ sauce

Something told me this day would come

Drowning deep, in a sea gone numb

I heard it in a radio skit

Purported to be an amusing bit

Upstairs, downstairs, gone astray

A mood of unrest getting in the way

Marching minions, cloned and clean

Ghostly goblins from an AI dream

Ring toss master, a king of chance

Suspenders holding up his pants

Pointing out the easy mark

Standing in lines at the amusement park

Apparently, I could not hear

My laughter held in silent arrears

Nothing caused my face to grin

Tossed like trash in a flaming bin

Author! Author! Was the cry

An eternal quest to reason why

But when the sunset came around

There was nothing to see but the tent come down

Circus jacks and joiners aplenty

Leaping between tall poles for money

Their skills were honed in a school of knocks

A rhythmic ride upon the rocks

If I had the courage now

To say more than the law allows

I would trade this mud and drool

For a confection, both sweet and cool

But my place is on the fringe

With a voice much like a rusty hinge

Unheard and wholly unbelieved

Not the sort of gift to be gladly received

A castoff stone, bouncing free

A baton across my shins and knees

Running for the cover of care

Pretending to be unaware

Ignorance is the bliss of defeat

Standing in the midst of bare concrete

Hard and dry, a spot surrendered

With a cause, rightly remembered

Protest kids, their whistles blow

Teasing up the virgin snow

Cameras point at a witness in rags

Living with cardboard, and shopping bags

While the shadow of a temple’s stand

Rises to greet a horizon, grand

Shell games arouse a charge of tricks

While the poor must fight with rocks and sticks

A sad illusion turned on itself

A lonely walk past a library bookshelf

Someday they’ll write of this escapade

And all that prospered, in their parade

Of justice carried by the courts

Like a victor’s spoils, won in sports

If I still have the breath to speak

I’ll nod my head and tap my feet

A gray-haired traveler in a hospital bed

Not quite quick, and not quite dead

Yes, the tale they tell is true

I saw it all while on a cruise

From shore to shore, a continental leap

With the nation gone too fast, asleep

The clang of keys from a duty belt

A jailhouse jolt, directly felt

The door slides shut, and good is served

Apathy got what it deserved

Nobody Reads This Page – “Boredom”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-26)

 

 

During sunny days, year-round and right throughout the winter months, I sit outside on my front porch to catch a first-person view of the sky, and a breath of fresh air. It is a habit developed as the living space inside my longbox has become needfully shrunken by an accumulation of things. A habit intensified by remaining at the same address for long periods of time. As a child, I was used to my family relocating on an irregular basis. Sometimes after a year, or three, or five, depending on my father’s ability to earn an income from preaching the gospel of Christ. I never had much warning when these moves transpired, but eventually learned to identify certain facial expressions and delays in offering conversational details, at the dinner table. While the process of finding a new pulpit in which to stand was sometimes smooth and agreeable, on other occasions, it represented a herky-jerky ride more akin to visiting an amusement park. False starts, unexpected detours, and last-minute negotiations could wreck the timeline.

 

In my personal life, I continued this trend. Living at different spots in an area depending on my ability to pay rent or mortgage costs, and the needs of those with whom I resided. But after a lifetime of wandering, and surrendering possessions which were scattered in my wake, I landed in a rural cluster of manufactured homes, south of Lake Erie. The result of bad personal decisions and relationship chaos.

 

Nearly 24 years have now passed since that auspicious event.

 

Therefore, I have accumulated lots of records, books, furnishings, musical instruments, and nonsensical bric-a-brac. Because, as someone without a hometown or any geographical point to serve as an anchor for my existence, I cling to collectible ‘junk’ as a mechanism to feel rooted. What I have is, in a certain sense, who I am as an individual. Yet this growing mass has now expanded to the point that whole rooms are unavailable for any other use than to serve as a storage space.

 

Some may appear to be similar in their affinity for keeping stuff around the household, and thereby inherit the label of ‘hoarder’ as a judgmental term. But for myself, this is not the case. Boxes and shelves in my own skinny shack are filled with research materials, and antique trinkets of a curious nature. Not simply rubbish gathered for some undefined purpose. So, while it is likely that I would enjoy getting outdoors for recreational purposes anyway, my tilt toward embracing the local environment is also driven by a quiet mood of claustrophobia.

 

Being on the wooden bench atop my access ramp does create a bit of social exposure, however. I am occasionally targeted by neighbors who are walking or jogging, or riding noisy, claptrap vehicles up and down our crooked streets. When this happens, I attempt to be polite and courteous. Though after a few minutes of interaction, it may become apparent that my interest in small talk and gossip is limited. I do my best to be patient.

 

On a recent afternoon, my presence in the three-sided cubicle was noted by someone next door. A reclusive fellow, who seemed to be pacing along the edge of my yard while tapping at the screen of his cellular device. He approached without an invitation or greeting, to say that an Uber driver was on the way to whisk him somewhere, regarding a health issue. A minor test which was not concerning, but still presented a chore that had interrupted his day of doing nothing.

 

“I get so bored in there! Watching TV, playing video games, smoking cigarettes or whatever else there is on hand, haw haw haw! Staring at the same four walls, you know? Counting cracks in the ceiling. Making bathroom trips, and standing at my refrigerator to find a snack. Listening to my daughter’s canine, ankle-biter yip and yap. Or hearing pickup trucks roll by with bald tires and no mufflers. It makes me feel tired! What a life! What a frigging life!”

 

As a wordsmith, perpetually involved in writing, study, or research, I had no literal comprehension of what he described. Boredom? Not in my corner. There always seemed to be ideas floating in the ether. Even in the midst of a dark night, when restlessness and a glowing moon through the front window might inspire projects for later in the morning. I never had that sensation very often. Even occasionally writing poems or jotting down ideas on old envelopes, restaurant napkins, or wrapping paper.

 

His comment about suffering through empty hours of naught lingered, though. Eventually, it evoked memories of a UK group known for a raw sound and sharp wit. Seminal Punk heroes, the Buzzcocks. And their debut release, known simply as ‘Spiral Scratch.’

 

“Yeah, well, I say what I mean

I say what comes to my mind

Because I never get around to things

I live a straight, straight line

You know me, I’m acting dumb

You know the scene, very humdrum

Boredom, boredom

Boredom...”

 

My counterpart across the side yard had a colorful back-story, full of various careers, truncated educational experiences, and a general gift for handling mechanical systems and minor construction tasks. He remined me somewhat of my younger brother, who had also been an automobile wizard, professional trucker, and risk-taker.

 

I pondered writing about the subject of boredom from the perspective of my home-office desk. Yet another classic composition from the 1970s emerged as I was considering this new project. One penned by Mick Jones and Joe Strummer, of the Clash.

 

“All across the town, all across the night

Everybody’s drivin’ with full headlights

Black or white you turn it on, you face the new religion

Everybody’s sittin’ ‘round watching television

London’s burning (With boredom now)

London’s burning (Dial 99999)

London’s burning (With boredom now)

London’s burning (Dial 99999).”

 

My own routine generally involves work at the desk, after coffee and breakfast. Then, chilled brew while relaxing on the front stoop. So, I don’t have to combat the nasty, gnawing sensation of boredom in my belly. A fact that gives me purpose. And perhaps, a bit of hope while getting through the day.

 

That is a blessing I celebrate, by staying busy.

 

“Epstein Files"

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-26)

 

 

The Epstein files, a radar blip

With an unexpected, fallacy-flip

A sleight-of-hand plot twist

A flick of muscles within the wrist

A sour note of spoiled juice

An oft-told tale, ah, what’s the use?

Sides of the divide are bunkered and bruised

To look the other way, and forget this news

The ring of truth cannot be heard

Parsing partisans have the final word

They spit and polish this canine turd

The will of wonder is deterred

Redacted rightly, before release

Bringing the press to desist and cease

An act set in stone, at the least

Obfuscation is brewer’s yeast

Somewhere in the dead of night

A call went out, to put things right

Yet the noble cause slipped out-of-sight

Crushed under weight of a scammer’s delight

Stuck in a queue with others who wait

For a benevolent nod from the estate

A button-click to instigate

What most assumed was a work of fate

This pedo trash was rich and renowned

Yes, that fellow got ‘round and ‘round

With allies hidden underground

Appeals exclaimed without a sound

Now the rats run off his ship

Swimming rodents on an ocean trip

How odd to watch the video clip

And see the prince with a busted lip

Allies turn to drink and song

Wishing to escape the banging gong

But their guilt was hard and strong

We knew it well, all along

Diamonds and their gilded hair

May adorn the royals, proud and fair

But in a land where scandals snare

There is a need to be aware

Excuses linger, long and low

Justice served, both cold and slow

Kicked in the outback, to and fro

Look out friends, look out, below

Epstein died in a cell, unwatched

An ending story, badly botched

A fade to black, in deed and thought

A sentence served, covertly wrought

One-by-one, enablers fall

The siren sings a sailor’s call

Upon the rocks they smash and stall

A loss of life surrenders all

A click of handcuffs around the bone

As those in charge say, “Leave it alone!”

But the chicken’s roost lies close to home

There’s an informant on the telephone

Lies may last for a moment and more

But in the end, comes a just reward

A point of order, from the sword

A jailhouse jump, of his own accord

Did he perish, by a knot

Tied and dangling from a prisoner’s cot?

The story waits for a snoop to spot

When courage flows and fear cannot

On that day, I’ll stand and hear

This confession made to listener’s ears

No more distractions, no more tears

Make the ages wise, in arrears

“Corkscrew”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-26)

 

Something crazy

Yes, something wild

A road trip ‘cross the border

For a run down the Miracle Mile

Taking those chances that

I once might have embarked upon

With a bit more courage

A capricious run in a marathon

If only I could stand up

For long enough to take stock

Count the ticking and tocking

Of a stately old, grandfather clock

Those hands sweeping time

While I move through the mist

A journey to tomorrow

Which no one can resist

It seems simple from this vantage point

A conclusion rightly made

It meets my palate sweetly,

Like a summer drink of lemonade

Yet turns too quickly into rot

A beverage born of fiery fate

Scalding all the way down

While I cough and curse, or jump and shake

That is the price to pay

For being aware of secret truths

Like Superman, naked and numb

In the confines of a phone booth

Where did he find the proper pose?

I have to justly wonder aloud

Especially with his fictional tale

Revealing more than the plot allowed

It’s a kick, unkind and cruel

With lazy laughter, resounding

Would I have been better off

To keep my headache pounding?

Pressure points expose the flaws

Each failing oddly put to test

A scroll kept in a library nook

Behind wallpaper with a crusty crest

If I could dance the two-step

Then it might have been a breeze

To segue from one room, beyond

Without falling on my knees

But the tripping trot I did employ

Put my balance off its mark

I fell against the blackboard

A chalk-line border ‘round my heart

The shudder of this impact

Caused the whole room to quiver

It struck my tongue with the taste

Of a lesson, rudely delivered

No longer crazy

No longer so wild

Humbled and hobbled, by the result

Of an index card, mis-filed

I got lost in those skinny drawers

Never again to be found

My name went on, unspoken

A silent supplication in sound

But somewhere in that black hole

The universe gave grace

I was allowed to keep my chips

Like a gambler’s grab in haste

Whoever recalls that I was here

Is a hero I won’t deny

At the end of days, lingering still

With a warm heart on the inside

An inscription chiseled chiefly

To denote my rank and file

Is all that remains, a postage stamp

A kiss of the afterwhile

A footprint in fresh concrete

Which precipitates a mess

The trowel no longer useful

To erase this bold excess

Hardened in the nick of time

That is the way I felt

Unable, or unwilling

To revisit my younger self

That ability to choose a lane

From several on display

Is now only a wish, expired

That deal has gone away

Deaf I am to pleading pawns

I can’t hear the words they utter

My flesh and bone are supple, now

Like a dish of melted butter

My intellect, unprotected

No ransom received in trade

A last sunset falls behind the trees

With darkness, on parade

Something crazed and crazy

Something wild and worn

Closure comes at last

A graduation, true to form

Chatter, schmatter, on the line

It tingles my ear with pride

An eventual embrace of circumstance

A coming of the tide

Let the rush of water

Baptize me now, as clean

I’ve finally found the exit door

An escape from the modern scene

Warring tribes with sticks and stones

May continue to defend

But my turn of the corkscrew

Has reached its blissful end

Fishtail Redman, Chapter 30: Ministry

 

 

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-26)

 

 

Once again, Krista Pearl had been upstaged by events beyond her control. She wanted to have a semi-private conversation with her biker friend while the congregation enjoyed food and fellowship, after their regular Sunday Service. Yet the spiritual zeal of those who had attended became overwhelming. Particularly because, upon getting to know the unconventional speaker in more detail, it had become apparent that he was about to return to what had comprised much of his life, before.

 

Specifically, staying in motion, on the seat of his Harley-Davidson motorcycle.

 

Shepherd Narvel Adkins and a small number of counselors from the Exiles group were present. Though they had taken care not to draw attention to themselves. But now, they surrounded the unlikely evangelist.

 

In a rapid-fire session of queries, questions were raised about his future plans.

 

“Why leave us now? You’ve just gained respect from believers around the area! There is a great opportunity to be heard, and to carry the message to new listeners!”

 

Parker picked at a paper plate of ham, potato salad, and green bean casserole. In only a moment, he was weary of being prodded for answers.

 

“Friends, look at me. I don’t fit the bill for a preacher, not like my dad did, years ago. Neither does my outlook on the Bible. There’s always been something strange to me about how Christian teachings divide those who read the scriptures. Think about it! The Holy Word speaks to unity, to inclusion, to salvation for all who take up the way of the cross. But I had a close associate once, who was devoutly Catholic. A good-natured fellow, I liked him personally. We once got onto the subject of religion, however, and he said that those of us outside his church were wasting our time. Because we were not worshipping properly. And when I pointed out that the Lord I loved was the same Lord that he loved, my declaration caused him to cringe. As if, somehow, there were different versions of Jesus. Clones, perhaps? With only one being the original? I could not get him to admit that such a posture was ridiculous. Years later, one faithful member of a Church of Christ location pulled me aside because I had attended a Methodist service in that community. He asked, ‘Don’t you agree that all those people are going to hell?’ I was shocked and stunned, of course. Then, I pointed out that certain leaders of the Stone-Campbell Restoration Movement, which sired his non-denominational fellowship, had their roots in those other traditional orders. Barton W. Stone had been a Presbyterian minister. I wondered if that made their scholarship illegitimate? Were they stained and unworthy? If they studied the word and came to enlightenment, could not others follow the same path? Even where they were? Regardless of what name was over the front door where they attended? He had no answers. Only a smattering of dogma memorized during his youth. Which of course, was what the entire effort had been designed to change, in effect. To urge followers of Christ to indeed, be Christians only....”

 

Adkins turned pale while cradling a Styrofoam cup of coffee in his hands.

 

“Brother, that is a subject of continued debate and study. It is why in Morgantown, we call ourselves Exiles for the Almighty. Our place is not with any law of mankind, but with God and his commandments. Indeed, with the Son of God!”

 

Reverence echoed through the banquet room where they were eating.

 

“Amen! Amen! Amen! Amen!”

 

His motorcycle protégé nodded while pausing over the homemade meal.

 

“Right now, you come from a different flock. Yours is not the C of C. And I am an outlier, with no regular church at all. But what we share, what makes us one in the blood, is our love for Christ Jesus. That is what matters. Not rituals or habits or labels that make us feel safe with familiarity...”

 

Again, all the plastic forks, knives, and spoons quit moving for an instant.

 

“Amen! Amen! Amen! Amen!”

 

The shepherd from West Virginia’s university city bowed his head in reverence.

 

“You speak the raw truth. We are one in the body of Christ!”

 

Parker took out his copy of the Bible for Bikers. He began to read aloud as those who were nearby heard, and applauded.

 

Romans 8:12-17. “Therefore, brothers and sisters, we have an obligation – but is not to the flesh, to live according to it. For if you live according to the flesh, you will die; but if by the Spirit you put to death the misdeeds of the body, you will live. For those who are led by the Spirit of God are the children of God. The Spirit you received does not make you slaves, so that you live in fear again; rather, the Spirit you received brought about your adoption to sonship. And by him we cry, ‘Abba, Father.’ The Spirit himself testifies with our spirit that we are God’s children. Now if we are children, then we are heirs – heirs of God and co-heirs with Christ, if indeed we share in his sufferings in order that we may also share in his glory.”

 

His counterpart from the Exiles signified agreement.

 

“The Spirit makes us children of God. Amen.”

 

The former outlaw continued his observation.

 

“I grieve over the division among those who claim to believe in Biblical teachings. I weep for their adherence to the traditions of men. For their confusion of politics and true holiness. The word is clear, I think. Yet we stumble along the way to understanding. We become distinct tribes, that war with one another. When the path has been illuminated by God’s message. All we need to do is listen. Just listen to what the scriptures say...”

 

More acclamation sounded around the room.

 

“Amen! Amen! Amen! Amen!”

 

Parker closed his book, and pushed away from the long table.

 

“To stay here would only make it harder for others to get past these old divisions. I think that maybe, many of you aren’t quite ready to see someone like me, standing in a pulpit. But there are needs out there, lonely sinners that are yearning to hear the gospel. I can speak to them, to other wanderers like myself. To those who right now, feel very much alone and unworthy of salvation. That mission lies before me. And it is one I have rejected for a long, long time. But now, I will deny it, no more...”

 

Outside, his Shovelhead chopper glistened in the spring sunshine. He had already strapped his bedroll to the rear fender, and loaded both saddlebags. But as he came down on the kickstarter, there was a whisper of sweetness in his ear.

 

Krista Pearl had been waiting by his iron steed. She was dressed differently than usual, seemingly now ready for adventure, and the open road.

 

“I know y’all ain’t gonna stay here, Feeshtail! So I got a bargain fer ya. We’ll do this as a tag team! I need a family again, and y’all need a partner. I’m ready, boy. More ready than I’ve ever been. By God, I am finally ready! Don’t know fer what exactly, but here I go!”

 

Parker raised his eyebrows. He had not expected a last-minute appeal before departing.

 

“Hard rides are tough rides, ma’am. Lots of rain and grit, and risk-taking. Sleeping in my tent. Going hungry for days or weeks sometimes. Getting chased out of little towns that nobody ever heard of in places like yours. And some might wonder about your sanity. Or, maybe question your faith...”

 

His new cohort flipped her longish mane into a ponytail. She zipped up her leather. What awaited was uncertain, to be sure. But today, she was ready.

 

 

Fishtail Redman, Chapter 29: Confession

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-26)

 

 

The most recent Sunday morning service at Philippi’s Dadisman Road Christ Fellowship Church was better attended, thanks to a seasonal thaw. A meteorological blessing that seemed to reawaken local residents who had been huddled indoors during long weeks of winter. Also, members of the rural congregation knew that a guest speaker had been scheduled to appear. And that a church dinner was to take place, afterward.

 

Parker Redman, the unconventional, outlaw figure, would stand in their pulpit again.

 

This event was of particular interest to Krista Pearl and her relatives. She and the wandering biker had planned to rendezvous at the Mountaineer Travel Plaza, but found their connection interrupted by circumstance. So, with her cousins providing an escort, she came to participate in their weekly service. With hope of meeting her shaggy friend, afterward.

 

The order of worship was very familiar. A song leader called out numbers from a selection of sacred hymns, which included a favorite of her family. One written in 1912 by George Bennard.

 

“On a hill far away

Stood an old rugged Cross

The emblem of suff’ring and shame

And I love that old Cross

Where the dearest and best

For a world of lost sinners was slain

 

So I’ll cherish the old rugged Cross

Till my trophies at last I lay down

I will cling to the old rugged Cross

And exchange it some day for a crown.”

 

Parker felt his chest tighten while singing those words aloud. They were an enduring part of his childhood, and growth to maturity. Even when in the saddle and riding at highway speeds, on his Shovelhead chopper, he still thought of that song, sometimes. It provided an a cappella connection to the bloodline from which he came. One that he could not escape, by any means.

 

To begin his sermon, at the appropriate moment, he read a passage from the Bible for Bikers with dramatic flair.

 

Mark 16:14-20, “Later Jesus appeared to the Eleven as they were eating; he rebuked them for their lack of faith and their stubborn refusal to believe those who had seen him after he had risen. He said to them, ‘Go into all the world and preach the gospel to all creation. Whoever believes and is baptized will be saved, but whoever does not believe will be condemned. And these signs will accompany those who believe: In my name they will drive out demons; they will speak in new tongues; they will pick up snakes with their hands; and when they drink deadly poison, it will not hurt them at all; they will place their hands on sick people, and they will get well.’ After the Lord Jesus had spoken to them, he was taken up into heaven and he sat at the right hand of God. Then the disciples went out and preached everywhere, and the Lord worked with them and confirmed his word by the signs that accompanied it.”

 

Upon finishing, he offered an explanation of choosing this scripture.

 

“Friends, this is another reflection of the great commission, in Matthew 28. ‘Go into all the world!’ Think about that task, about what it entails. We like to gather in places such as this, a sanctuary where we are safe and secure. It makes us feel good to sing and pray together, with our neighbors and fellow believers. But I ask you to ponder the meaning here, the kernel of truth and wisdom given as a challenge to us. Does it say to huddle up with our advocates, and echo the same teachings, over and over, for everyone to hear? Think about the message. ‘Go into all the world!’ That’s a big job to handle. There are many places where the good news of Christ is not necessarily welcome. Not only in foreign lands, but here at home, where people do not wear fine suits and dresses, or speak with confidence as the result of a proper education. There are citizens right here in this county, who are hungry, dirty, and dejected. Maybe even abandoned and alone. Do you know any of them? Do you acknowledge their presence when they pass on the street? Do you feel their need to be fed, not just with a hot meal, but with the Holy Word of God? We do well to worship in our churches, but I remind you that the gospel needs to be heard in spots that are not pretty to behold, or pleasant, or familiar. Those people need salvation just as we do. Just as I did, when traveling from state to state in search of my own identity...”

 

He stripped off his borrowed suit jacket, to reveal strong, tattooed arms that were colorful and covered with strange designs.

 

“i needed to hear the message. Even when I didn’t want to listen. Even when I thought that God’s grace was no longer available to me. Even when I thought that my own father had turned his back on my very existence. You see, we’ve done plenty of preaching to those in the pews here. We are very good at holding our own. But there has to be more in our walk of faith. We have been called to evangelize, to spread the good news. That can happen in a forum such as this, or maybe through providing an example to someone you know. We are all, potentially, ministers of the gospel. There is no need for titles and accolades. The one title that matters is this: Christian. To have the mind of Christ, the heart of Christ, and the manner of Christ. That is the goal for which we strive. And I struggle every day, brothers and sisters. I struggle and fall short, then get up and start over again...”

 

Parker paused for a moment, to collect his thoughts. Then closed his copy of the good book.

 

“With that in mind, I have a confession to make. Some of you have asked if I might take a position here with you, as a regular clergyman. But I’ve got to tell you that this call to carry the word is ringing in my ears. I belong out there, riding the roads. With a new kind of zeal in effect, however. Not to seek fun and adventure for myself, but to glorify our Heavenly Father. He is the reason I am still alive. He is the reason I did not end up in jail somewhere, or in a casket with old friends who refused to believe. He is speaking to all of us, today. Are you listening? I ask you to consider that thought as we stand and sing...”

 

There was a rush to the center aisle. Many who were in attendance came forward, for prayers, restorations, and baptisms. A chant went up from the crowd as they began the final song, one of invitation to receive the Holy Spirit.

 

“AMEN, BROTHER REDMAN! AMEN! AMEN! AMEN!”