seems as though he’d meant to come back — he’d said goodbye to his folks and was all packed and everything, even — but then his car wouldn’t start. Joel took it as a sign that God didn’t want him to go, so he unpacked and within a week was engaged and assistant manager of a miniature golf course outside Kamloops.
Danny asked me what I thought, and I told him that I didn’t want to judge Kajinsky but his methodology sounds dodgy. He agreed. I mean, it’s like Our Father, the Car or something. Deal with it: bad guys don’t always have transmission trouble. And that’s not because God’s impotent to strip their gears or whatever. That’s just how it goes in a fallen world.
I wonder what Joel’s devotional time is like these days. I wonder how his car’s doing. Not that it’s for me to judge.
February 10
The Holy Spirit’s been speaking to me about doodling too much in Doctrine class.
2
Overcomer’s been blessed down through the years with a bountiful share of stalwart ladies of faith. Almost from the day we turned the sod there was dear Clenda McGully, O.B.l.’s first euphonics teacher. An ex-flapper not unfamiliar with what the world could offer a maid, she proved herself cherished of God and a veritable lighthouse of divine love, heroically warding away many a soul from the shoals of concupiscence. The McGully Music Building, consumed in the fire of ‘49, was named in her honour. And who could forget saintly Valerie Hall, dean of girls for more than three decades? Or old “Praying Maggie,” our cheery Dining Room hostess since 1958? Now, in later years, the Lord has favoured us with the likes of Amphora Faulkner .…
Charles K. Barstowe, At Home With God
“Church hist’ry is not for the faint a’ heart.”
Those were the first words I heard skip through Amphora Faulkner’s unpainted lips, my first Church History class on my second day of classes. Her hickory-smoked voice — a hash of ripe innocence and suggestion unlike anything I’d heard since the cancellation of Petticoat Junction, and wouldn’t hear again until Designing Women— concentrated my mind like the pinch of a patrician dominatrix. Just once, after a long night polishing a paper on Mexican Mariolatry, did Faulkner’s lush harmonics lull me to a podgy sleep, my head nestled on the desktop crib of my arms. When I awoke to a suddenly hushed classroom with a smattering of heads turned towards me, and Faulkner’s odd, forbearing smile (a worldly sneer mellowed by deathless mercy) fixed upon me like a Romulan tractor beam, she rapped her pointer at the chalk words “Diet of Worms” and drawled, “Well, Mistah Gast?”
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
