Wednesday, June 3, 2026
Call Me Thishmail
Call me Thishmail. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having a few bucks and a baccalaureate, and nothing in particular to interest me in River City, I thought I would traverse the Gulf coast and establish meself in the fair city of St. Petersburg, to seek my game and fortune among the old folks who had made their home there.
Such was my fateful acceptance of this strategic relocation, chosen for me by insurance-peddling kinfolk, affording me the great American opportunity to translate a post-academic question into a business response. But that was a long time ago, miles and miles before I slept, and dreamed a dream and thereby drove my little yellow VW up to the Appalachian wonderland,
and long before the darkness of failure descended upon me and I ultimately redirected the VW to Waco, where I found myself in the presence of the Holy Spirit. . . you know— the One mentioned in the Book of Acts— and the Spirit of the Risen Lord redirected my voyage through the various gulfs of experience.
Later, on a fateful summer day, while the pipes were a-calling on Grandfather, I and my bride diverted our path up to the Boone trail, where the rest of life happened. . . in a Holy Spirit-led community of Christian believers, a fellowship of young families into which my bride and I introduced our three young ones to this world of wonder, woe, wealth and worship.
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