Signs of the Kingdom

Nothing holds us back like the pain in our past. If only we could be more like chickadees—amazing little birds with a gift for forgetting.

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Dear Anonymous: Thank you for your letter. Sorry my sermon on abortion upset you.

An old ash tree came down in a storm and fell across my fence, smashing through the top and bottom rails. I trudged out through the snow with the dogs—sleek, black Gordon Setters—to inspect the damage. Surveying the wreckage, I noticed that the top six inches of the fence post, where the top rail had been nailed, had been shaved with a wood plane. You could still see the marks. 

I went to the dump the other day. They call it the County Landfill, but don't let them kid you. It's the dump. 

Were you told, as I was, that there was a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow? I once set out, as a little boy, trudging on my little legs, to find the pot of gold. But no sooner did I get off our yard than my mother came and marched me back home. And when I looked over my shoulder, the rainbow had disappeared. There went my gold.

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