I spent the night at that kind old gentleman's house. Next
morning as I drove my buggy toward home, I let my team find the
way by habit rather than by my direction. They went up and down
the little hills and through the sand beds at slow pace.
Eventually I tied their lines to the dashboard so that I could
give full attention to searching the Scriptures. I needed solace
for my very soul.
As I thumbed through the pages of my Bible there welled up in
my memory all the passages I usually read to the bereaved at a
graveside. These brought small comfort. None, in fact. I wondered
that I had ever thought such Scriptures could, in themselves,
console.
I searched for other promises but could find not one to blot
out my bitter regret and remorse.
Faces of the dear people in my churches came before me. I
thought of the Sundays I had stood in the pulpit at Millers
Crossing and at Shiloh, here at Drake Eye Springs, and at all my
other churches and of how I had spoken softly and shouted loudly,
of how I had cajoled and pled.
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