(found in a puddle of something undesirable or somesuch somesuch)
“Evidence enough that the Lord doesn’t exist and that – if He does – He certainly has no care for us.” That’s what the man said, though I’m sure that you heard him before. I can’t believe what he said, and I can’t believe that he only needed the thermometer hanging on the church porch as evidence for his statement.
I have no retort for the man, yet I am inclined to disbelieve him.
Certainly, for all this talk of intelligence and so on, there isn’t much that has been made so intelligently – or, at least, made intelligently for us. Two-thirds of the year here we are dogged by the discomfort of our environs, either forced to contend with the heat in loose-hanging flannels or tossed out of clothes altogether and allowed to cool, naked, in ice baths.
Yet we are alive, and what more can we ask of Him?
The sweat beads on my forehead like so many pearls on a glistening necklace, so much sweat that by midday the kerchief I carry is of no use whatsoever. It is already soaked and sopping.
Yet I continue to wipe my brow, for there is work to be done. Certainly always work to be done.
I haven’t a point anymore, dear uncle. Be careful of the earthquakes out west, for certainly the Lord may wish to take one of us by force in these coming weeks. I will take care as to keep my brains from leaking out my ears after the heat melts it into liquid.