"John and Judas are representatives of those who profess to be Christ’s followers. Both these disciples had the same opportunities to study and follow the divine Pattern. Both were closely associated with Jesus and were privileged to listen to His teaching. Each possessed serious defects of character; and each had access to the divine grace that transforms character. But while one in humility was learning of Jesus, the other revealed that he was not a doer of the word, but a hearer only. One, daily dying to self and overcoming sin, was sanctified through the truth; the other, resisting the transforming power of grace and indulging selfish desires, was brought into bondage to Satan." 12
When George and Billy plunged into the ravine,
they fell into a world of cool shadows. The fissure was approximately
eight to ten feet deep and quite narrow which immediately shielded
them from the fierce heat and hurricane winds.
The scant trickle of water, from the creek,
had pooled several feet from where they fell, and George quickly
crawled in that direction, immersing first Billy then himself
in the refreshing water. He was surprised by its warmth but it
felt soothing to his aches and pains. Up stream, he surmised,
burning trees had fallen into the creek imparting to it a warmth
that it did not normally posses.
With a resounding crash, a tree fell across
the lip of the ravine, showering them with sparks and flaming
branches. George brushed these aside. The tree seemed to provide
a protective shield that deflected other trees and branches that
would have fallen into their sanctuary. As a further protection
against sparks, he smeared a thick layer of mud over their exposed
clothes and skin.
George had seldom prayed, but there, in
the mud and water, at the bottom of a narrow ditch, with the world
on fire several feet above his head, he offered a prayer of thanksgiving
to God for sparing their lives. No longer was there any hesitation,
for he was fervently thankful for this miraculous deliverance.
Although he knew the danger was far from over, he and Billy were
spared a terrible fate..
When George recovered his breath and his
pounding heart resumed its normal rhythm, or at least normal for
the circumstances in which they found themselves, he began a thorough
physical examination of Billy and himself. Finding only bruises,
cuts, and some miner lacerations on Billy and the same for himself,
along with some mild burns, which were soothed by the warm water,
he had cause for additional thanksgiving. Smearing mud over the
worst injuries, he hoped they would not become infected before
they could obtain medical help. But when that would be? George
didn't have any idea.
Hours passed, the fire raged unchecked,
and they both grew tired. Cradling Billy in his arms while shielding
him with his body and keeping his face out of the water, he urged
his son to get some rest, and soon, to his amazement, Billy was
sleeping. How can children sleep under such extraordinary circumstances,
he wondered?
Glancing at his watch, which, incredibly,
was still ticking, he realized that it was already 9:00 A.M. They
had spent the entire night at the bottom of the ravine but he
could not discern any day light.
George’s legs began to cramp and his
abused muscles complained loudly but he could do nothing to allay
the discomfort. Leaning back against the wall of the ditch and
closing his eyes, his thoughts wondered to his boyhood and memories
of Uncle William, that dear, old, gray haired man who often walked
with him by the creek near the farm house, hand in hand, telling
him stories calculated to delight his heart and teach lessons
of morality.
Sugar plum, a mottled brown, retired plow
hoarse, whinnied his greeting over the weathered gray fence of
the corral as Uncle William passed by. Reaching into the spacious
pocket of his faded bib overhauls, he extracted a tree ripened
golden delicious apple and passed it through the fence rails to
Sugar Plum who seized it gratefully in his mouth, munching it
contentedly, tail frisking in delight at this favored treat.
“Chuckles,” Uncle William said,
referring to George by his nick name, as they resumed their walk
along the muddy path bordering the barn and corral, “God
created horses for our benefit, but He also commanded that we
love and provide for them. Always remember, my dear young lad,
the evidence of a real man is his attitude toward God’s creatures.
We are their masters, just as God is our master,” he said
with a gentle smile. Chuckles admired Uncle William, desiring
to please this kindly old man.
“If you were a hoarse,” his Uncle
inquired, “how would you desire to be treated?”
This question perplexed Chuckles for a moment.
“I want you to ride me,” he said, kicking a stone with
the toe of his small cow boy boot.
Uncle William beamed his approval, then
sat upon a stump in the field and invited Chuckles to sit in his
lap. “My dear young friend,” he said, smoothing his
gray hair and adjusting his brown rimed slouch hat on the back
of his head and wiping his crusty, crinkled face with a red checkered
handkerchief. “God created boys as well as horses.”
“Does He want to ride me,” Chuckles
inquired innocently?
Uncle William threw back his head and laughed
good naturedly. “Not the way we ride Sugar Plum,” he
said, clasping Chuckles small hand in his large gnarled one. Some
day, my lad, God will speak to you of nice things, of pleasant
experiences. He will then open before you a rich pasture where
He desires you to feed, to romp, and kick up your heels as Sugar
Plum does in the early morning, when he feels frisky.”
Chuckles watched the old man’s face
beaming with joy as his gaze turned toward the vaulted blue doom
of heaven where several fleecy white clouds floated upon its bosom.
“God’s pasture is the world,”
he continued after a moments meditation which Chuckles was reluctant
to interrupt. “It is filled with all types of horses and
mules. Go ye into my vineyard and teach all nations, baptizing
them in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy spirit,”
he said, glancing at the small boy.
Chuckles waited for the old man to continue,
but he remained silent. Perplexity burdened his heart. “I
don’t understand, Uncle,” Chuckles remarked, as the
old man rose and walked slowly toward the old gray house perched
upon a hill. As they neared the door, the delightful aroma of
home baked apple pie wafted upon the breeze and he could hear
Aunt Dorothy singing as she dusted flower over the cookie sheet.
Seeing Uncle William, she burst into a fresh
song of joy, as she kneaded the large ball of dough in her thin,
aged hands. Watching them, Chuckles saw a glance of affection
pass between the aged couple, so accustomed to each other that
they needed not words to converse, but spoke with eyes and gestures
whose meaning was unknown by the small boy.
Uncle William bent low and kissed Aunt Dorothy
who reached up and gently stroked his graying beard, leaving a
streak of white flour. Paying no mind to it, he spoke his love
with his eyes.
Chuckles watched and remembered his Aunt
and Uncle. Memories so long forgotten, yet the memory of their
love and the lessons imparted to a small lad were still fresh
and vivid in his mind many years later. George felt a warmth steel
over his cold heat. Seeds planted by Uncle William, beside a corral
and upon a stump in a sun bathed filed of wild flowers, long dormant,
sprang to life at the bottom of a water filled ravine.
Later in the morning, it began raining accompanied
by a strong wind. At first only gentle drops fell, then a torrent
of water poured down upon them. George immediately recognized
this is a good sign, for the rain would extinguish the fire enough
for them to escape, but almost immediately another thought assailed
his harried brain, flash flooding. As the rain descended in torrents,
he knew they would have to get out of this ravine soon.
Waking Billy, he gingerly stood erect, stretched
his numbed and aching muscles. The large tree, that had protected
them during the night, was still smoldering. Carefully, he eased
himself up onto several rocks and peered over the edge. What he
saw, frightened him. The rampaging fire had moved on, leaving
blackened, smoldering trees in its wake. Here and there, fallen
piles of trees and brush were still burning, despite the torrential
rain, but over all hung a dense curtain of smoke, so dense that
no daylight penetrated it. Was this what hell was like, George
thought to himself? The ground was smoldering while wisps of smoke
crawled among the remains of the forest. The heat was intense.
Moving carefully, he eased Billy and himself
over the edge of the ravine and was instantly met by the acrid
smell of burning wood smoke that filled his lungs causing him
to cough spasmodically. Stay close to the ground, George, he thought
and try to avoid the hot spots and low hanging smoke.
Looking about him, he saw his truck, or,
rather, what was left of it, along with the sounding board of
the piano and not much else. Blackened and burned, it scarcely
resembled his cherished work horse. Its interior still smoldered
and the burning rubber tires gave off an offensive order.
Together, the two fugitives from the underworld
begin their walk back to civilization. When George ran down the
mountain, he ended up close to where the road entered this deselect
wilderness. By following it, he thought, they would eventually
find someplace to escape the rain, They began their assent, hand
in hand, as fast as Billy could move. Steadily and silently, over
the next several hours, they ascended the twisting road they had
descended the previous evening. Billy remained uncharacteristically
quiet, having little to say to his father, apparently deep in
thought.
Their progress was constantly impeded by
fallen trees that obstructed the road. Clearing these obstacles
was always a painful process, for their charcoal mass was still
hot, but usually George managed to find a cooler area to climb
over or under.
Despite the wind driven rain, thirst became
an over riding concern. He wasn't sure they could drink the water
in the creek, that had turned into a raging maelstrom, as it appeared
thick with mud, charcoal, and other debris. Getting dysentery
wasn't the thing to do at this moment, George thought. Taking
out his pocket handkerchief, he exposed it to the rain which quickly
saturated it. Offering it to his son, he urged Billy to suck the
water out of it and thus satisfy his thirst.
He marveled at Billy’s endurance. Just
as George was growing exhausted, Billy seemed to have renewed
strength and even encouraged his father to go on further. And
on they went, higher and higher, out of the valley of destruction,
but still they couldn’t see any evidence of daylight, Only
a dark gray smoke hung over everything, punctuated here and there
by a burst of flame, and the dark, foreboding shapes of dead trees
twisted into a hideous shapes, lying on the ground or leaning
against others trees. Grotesque shapes, hidden in the fog, would
suddenly emerge, as they passed, then disappear back into hiding.
Branches stuck out at odd angles from the few trees left standing
and these seemed like strange cold fingers pointing at them from
the enfolding fog.
But it was the unremitting rain that gave
them the greatest problem. Depending on the direction of the road,
it either stung their faces, forcing them to walk blind with their
heads downcast, eyes on the ground, or it turned the gravel road
into a slough of mud and water, causing them to slip and fall,
until they were coated from head to foot with a thick layer of
mud and gravel, that added to the misery of the climb.
Occasionally, they encountered the dead
body of a deer or other indistinguishable animal in the road or
off to one side. George found himself shedding tears for these
unfortunate animals. They were also terrified by the fire storm,
with no place to hide, no where to escape the hurricane of fire,
they succumbed to smoke inhalation and died where they fell, just
as much victims as the forest that previously sheltered them and
provided a home.
Home! Would he ever return home, George
wondered, as the afternoon drifted into evening. The only evidence
of the change of time was his faithful watch. Tired, hungry, and
terribly dirty, they walked on, mostly in silence. The world around
them was also silent except for the rain that continued to fall
and the occasional sound of the creek that had moved further away
from the ascending road. As they stopped for a momentary rest,
the rain slackened and silence, deathly silence, descended about
them. This was not the pleasant silence of the peaceful woods,
but the silence of the grave.
They couldn’t go on much further, even
Billy was tiring rapidly and his enthusiasm was waning. During
the afternoon, they had encountered several cross roads, but George
had taken none of them, fearing that they would take them deeper
into the dead wilderness. But now they stood, irresolutely, at
an intersection. The main road, they had followed since they left
the ravine, seemed indistinct in comparison to this new one. He
was uncertain which way to turn. Again, George heard that same
inner voice that aroused him at the moment of cresting the ridge
into the fire storm. It seemed to say, Turn right!
That’s as good a direction as any,
George thought, so they turned right and continued walking. Darkness
descended upon the weary travelers, but there was no where to
find shelter for the night, so George, now utterly exhausted,
placing one foot before the other, in a senseless trudge, walked
on, with Billy at his side.
With his head down, in exhaustion and resignation,
he almost missed it. What was it that made him glance right, some
noise perhaps, some shadow among the gathering darkness, some
curiosity to see what he was passing. He never knew, but there,
some distance from the road, was a regular shape among the irregular
indistinct shadows of trees among the dense fog. He paused and
looked harder, was it a building?
Urging Billy to remain in the road until
he returned, he turned in the direction of the shadow hoping it
had substance. For once, Billy did not protest, but sat down,
unmindful that the spot he chose was a mud puddle.
Walking several feet from the road, into
the misty shadows, George squinted at the shape that slowly emerged
from the surrounding darkness. Was it possible! Yes, he shouted
triumphantly, it was a barn, and it appeared to be undamaged.
Returning to the road, he gathered up Billy in his arms and hurried
back to the haven of rest in a troubled world.
Rounding a corner of the barn, he discovered
an opening into which he cautiously entered. Almost at once, he
was greeted with the familiar smell of dried hay. Gingerly exploring
with a his foot, he found several bales. Ripping off the binding
wire, he spread a layer of hay for Billy and himself. With an
exhausted prayer of thanksgiving, they fell sound asleep.
Silence descended, and the rain intensified
while the smoke and mists blended to form a thick blanket over
the weary travelers. Neither of them saw the watchers that guarded
their resting place. Neither of them had taken note of the forms
in the mist that stationed themselves about the barn patiently
watching over their charges.
“Billy.”
Billy stirred under the blanket of hay,
and sleepily inquired, “what is it Dad?!
“I didn’t say anything, son, go
back to sleep,” his father mumbled.
Billy slept.
“Billy,” the voice spoke again,
this time slightly louder then before but just as friendly and
kind.
Billy stirred and yawned. “Ya Dad,”
he said.
“I didn’t say anything Billy.”
Several moments passed in silence.
“Billy,” the voice called again
from the mist and shadows.
Billy roused himself and looked around.
He heard a voice, but it wasn’t his Dad’s. Strangely,
he wasn’t afraid. Brushing the hay off his wet clothes, he
rose and walked to the door and looked outside.
The rain had stopped for the moment, but
the blackness was uninterrupted except for the lighter mists that
floated here and there among the gaunt shapes of burned trees.
“Yes, Lord,” Billy responded,
“I’m here.”
He was sitting on a log near the door and
Billy was instantly drawn to him. Although he could not see His
form clearly, he instantly recognized this nocturnal visitor,
for His voice was familiar. Walking to the log, he sat down. “Yes,
Lord,” Billy said again. “Thank you for the angels.”
“You say them, Billy,” his Lord
inquired?
“Yes, I did,” he replied, quietly.
“Thank you for sending them.”
“They are here now,” the Lord
replied, gesturing to the darkness. Billy strained to see them
but could discern only the gaunt shapes of trees in the mists.
“Billy,” the voice continued,
“I love you and your dad. You are very precious to me. I
came here tonight to assure you that I will guide you out of the
mountains. Two of your Father’s friends will come for you
in three days.”
“Thank you Lord,” Billy replied.
“I love you also.”
“Billy, you have not treated your Father
very kindly.”
This mild rebuke broke Billy’s heart.
He began to cry. “I know, I like to tease Dad and make him
mad. I’m sorry. Please forgive me and help me not to do it
again.”
“I will help you Billy but you must
apologize to your father for all those time you irritated him.”
“I will apologize.”
The visitor smiled but Billy could not see
it in the blackness. He felt comforted, however, and strangely
rested in His presence.
“Lord, I want to love other boys and
girls the way you have loved me. You are so patient with my foolishness.”
His Lord was pleased with Billy’s confession
and desire. “Do you really love me?”
This question hurt Billy. “Yes, Lord,
you know I love you.”
He was satisfied. “There are some boys
and girls who have never heard about me and I need someone to
go and love them for me.”
“Can I go,” Billy asked without
hesitation. “Can I go and tell them about you and how much
you love them?”
The Lord paused for a moment. “Billy,”
he continued, “bad things have happened to these children.
Adults have hurt them and continue to hurt them.”
Billy didn’t hesitate. “I want
to go to them and comfort them.”
“Those men will hurt you also,”
he replied.
“I don’t care what happens to
me,” Billy replied fervently.
His Lord smiled again.
“But,” billy continued pensively,
“how will I find them?”
“When the time is right, I will take
you to them.”
Billy was happy. His days of foolishness
were over, now he could love other children as his Lord loved
him.
“One more thing,” the visitor
said.
“What’s that,” Billy asked?
“When those men hurt you and make you
do things that you don’t want to do, I am right next to you.
If you need me, just call, I will always answer, for, lo, I am
with you, always, even unto the end of the world.”
Billy repeated this promise to himself.
“Never forget it his Lord cautioned.”
“Will I ever return home,” Billy
inquired.
His Lord did not answer, at first. “Trust
me, Billy,” he finally answered.
“Lord, I trust you.’
After a moment, Billy realized that his
Lord was gone. He sat on the log for a long time thinking of those
nameless boys and girls. He could almost hear them crying and
his heart, big with love, yearned to comfort them, to place his
arms around them and tell them of the flaming trees that walked
with him.
* * *
“My father was a Methodist minister,”
Skipp said. Shortly after World War 11, he decided to study for
the ministry. His reasoning was impeccable, his own minister was
such a poor example that he felt he could do better. Finishing
collage, he took his studies at a small seminary in Chicago replete
with ivy covered brick walls and a beautiful location along the
lake shore.
“It became evident to me, many years
later, that he was not called by God to this work for he failed
most miserably. Before the war, he had a good job as a mailman
in Ludington, considering the consequences of his ministry, it
would have been well if he had returned to that career after his
war time stint in the San Francisco navel post office, but he
was proud and would go where he was not called.
“The essential qualification for any
man of God, aside from the obvious ones of a thorough knowledge
of the Bible, preaching abilities, and organizational skills,
is a love for the Lord manifested by love for his family and his
parishioners but Dad was singularly devoid of godly love for anyone
other then himself.”
“Don’t you think that’s a
little harsh,” Seth Bailey commented as he whipped his glasses?
“I agree with Skipp,” Alite commented,
“he possessed a cold, uncaring, uncharitable disposition
so at odds with the gospel.”
Skipp frowned as he continued the narrative.
“Foreseeing his need, God gave him a son and two daughters,
Gala, who was three years older and Jamina who was nine years
younger. Gala he preferred, although I wouldn’t call his
fondness for her parental love, but that is another story. Jamina
he ignored, but his attitude toward me, the middle of the three
children and his only son was hostility rather then indifference.
It was as if he resented me for having the audacity to be born
blind. Although I recovered some useful vision through a surgical
operation several years after I was born, he hadn’t the slightest
idea what to do with me, therefore he did nothing.
Seth Bailey listened intently, occasionally
smoothing his gray hair with his hand, a compassionate expression
on his face.
“His father lacked the basic qualification
of love which is essential for a man of God,” Alite said.
“While Christ did not cause Skipp’s visual impairment,
he allowed it in order to test and prove his father. Had his father
profited from the opportunity to love and care for his son, his
ministry would not have failed and he would have been used by
God in a most dramatic fashion to lead many sons and daughters
to the throne of grace, but as it turned out, he would not soften
his hardened heart, would not see his son’s desperate need,
turned his back on him, pouring his affection, instead, upon Gala
who was perfect in most respects.”
“Your saying,” Professor Bailey
commented, “that God gave you to your parents to inspire
within your father a sense of compassion and mercy that he lacked
and had he sought the Lord in contrition of heart, Christ would
have filled him with grace and inspired his ministry with love?”
Skipp nodded in ascent.
Professor Bailey leaned back in the rocking
chair, removed his glasses and whipped them on his pocket handkerchief
while contemplating the unfolding story. “Please go on,”
he said, “I’ll reserve judgment until I hear more.”
“As I matured, Father was often away
from home attending to church business. Almost every night of
the week, he either attended church meetings, or visited his parishioners
in their homes. Of course, on Sundays, I seldom saw him. He left
home early for church to put the finishing touches on his sermon
or prepare for the service. When we arrived home after church,
he would sit in the living room and read the Sunday papers or
watch football on television, then in the evening, it was back
to church for Sunday vespers or another meeting.
“To say that I grew up without a father,
isn’t an understatement,” Skipp continued. “In
addition to his church duties, He had hobbies which consumed much
of his free time. He often played golf, raised gladiola flowers
in summer and prepared the bulbs during the winter for planting
in the spring. He also enjoyed developing home moves in his own
dark room. Between church and these hobbies, I seldom saw him
except for Sunday morning when he stood in the pulpit and spoke
in the name of the Lord.”
“You mentioned he loved Gala, your
older sister. This must have caused some resentment,” Seth
observed sagely?
“A combination of circumstances and
attitudes occurred to cause intense sibling rivalry between us
that persists today, but I would not describe his feelings for
her as love, at least not a wholesome type of love.
“Knowing she was the favored child
and that I was, if not despised, then at least an inferior child,
she felt free to humiliate me as often as possible, taunting me
with her superior position, with in the family, as the favorite
child based on her perfect vision and assurance of her father’s
preference.”
Seth laughed. “That’s a common
experience in most families. If I know the Bible, the same thing
happened with Isaac and Rebekah and their two sons, Esau and Jacob.
Like Rebekah, my mother, seeing the preference of my father for
Gala, overcompensated for his failure of love by showering me
with affection.”
“Mothers often do that,” Seth
observed.
“When a father fails to love his son
and his mother attempts to compensate for this failure, boys often
grow up as homosexuals or are predisposed to that life style.”
“Did that happen to you,” Seth
inquired delicately?
“No,” Skipp replied. “The
Lord was merciful and preserved me from that fate.”
Seth nodded, glancing at Alite who was listening
intently to her husband’s recital of his experiences.
“Being a father is a awesome responsibilities
for parents, especially men, stand in the place of God to their
children, representing the divine characteristics of mercy, compassion,
and love. Children learn about God by observing their parents.”
Seth interrupted, “if that’s true,
then God help us.”
“It is true,” Alite replied. “God
charges parents to teach through their example. Most of them fail
or misrepresent God, thus compelling him to correct their errors
when children grow up. Often, children are so twisted or warped
that they never discern a correct idea of God’s character.”
“Because my father failed to model
Christ before his family compounded this error by pretending to
speak in the name of the Lord on Sunday mornings, I grew up assuming
God didn’t love me, or was indifferent, or even hostile,
preferring girls rather then boys.”
“That must have been disheartening,”
Professor Baily commented introspectively?
“That’s only part of the story,”
Skipp replied. “I wouldn’t describe it as disheartening,
depressing would be a better term. Extreme depression unto mental
illness would be a more apt description for not only was I required
to bear a false representation of God but my mother, in an endeavor
to compensate, loved me in an unwholesome manner. She sexually
abused me.”
The Professor remained silent in deep thought
over this revelation.
“Suffering from a restrictive visual
impairment, the abandonment of my father, intense sibling rivalry,
sexual abuse, and mental illness, God had his work cut out for
him, but I am here today as a living testimony that he is rich
in mercies and abundant resources. Had Christ not taken the initiative
in my conversion, God only knows what would have happened to me.
I was eight years old when I first became
aware that men could love boys. In a mistaken zeal, my parents
sent me to a Methodist youth camp, believing it would be beneficial
for my social development. Instead, I was shunned and ostracized.
Children are mirror reflections of the adult mind set against
physical or mental handicap often acting out the prejudices of
their parents.”
“They can be little devils,” Seth
commented dryly.
“On Sunday morning, the boys in my
cabin decided to go down to the lake and read their Sunday school
lesson while sitting on the dock. When I head this proposal, my
heart sank, for I could not participate which only illustrated,
again, my inability to relate to the other children on an equal
basis. No one, especially children, want to be different.”
Alite, who had remained silent for the last
fifteen minutes, now picked up the thread of the narrative. “There
was a minister, a camp counselor, who saw Skipp’s need and
took pity on him. He took Skipp to another dock and read the lesson
to him so he could participate in the discussion.”
“This was the first time that I realized
a minister, a man, a father could be compassionate. He saw my
need and fulfilled it. While I didn’t reason in this fashion,
it was evident that men, ministers and fathers, could love me,
therefore, maybe God would love me, also.”
“As Skipp said,” Alite commented,
“there is a direct relationship, especially for boys, between
a kind, loving father and their conceptions of God. He demonstrated
to Skipp, through the actions of this minister, an aspect of His
character that had become skewed in Skipp’s mind.”
“God is truly merciful,” Skipp
concluded. “I’ve never had a traumatic or sudden conversion
experience, but, like the early morning sun that rises gradually
until it reaches its meridian glory, so my knowledge of God, beginning
on that dock, has grown steadily. It hasn’t reached its full
splendor, yet for I have much more to learn about Christ’s
character, but I believe his promise to finish the good work he
has begun in me and Alite.”
Seth sat silently contemplating the older
couple with intense interest, as his own heart struggled with
misconceptions and misapprehensions of the character of God. “You
have given me a new perspective of Christ,” he commented
thoughtfully, “I can only hope Christ is as merciful to me
as he has been to you folks.”
“God is no respecter of persons,”
Alite commented. “What he has done for Skipp and me, he will
do for you.”
Preparing to take his leave, Professor Seth
Baily extended his hand to Skipp then took Alite’s hand in
his own. “The fall semester is about to begin, but I’m
glad I took the advice of Richard, he’s a graduate student
in the department, to stop by and visit with your folks while
my wife and I were on vacation in the area.”
“We’re sorry she couldn’t
come this afternoon,” Alite said, “we would have enjoyed
meeting her.”
“She has some relatives in Frankfort.
I can’t stand them, their noses are so high in the air that
they trip over their lower lip, so I left her for several hours
while I visited with your folks.”
“God bless you Alite and Skipp said
in unison as Seth took his leave.
