June 5, 2015
Surely Noah must have had his doubts. Surely he must have wondered as he sat atop that yellow mountain waiting for the dove to return, wondering if it would return, watching as the sky cleared and the water receded inch by inch: Am I mad? Was I hearing things? What are my senses that I should credit them? And if it really was God’s voice I heard, just supposing, then Who is He that I should trust Him? All powerful! An inducement to fear, yes, not trust. And what of my neighbors, whom I have, not forty days since, seen floating like pickles in a barrel, face-up in the brine, their locks streaming out to either side of them and their poor faces white and still in death? They were not all bad, nor I all good. I know my sins. Is this endless fending off the questions of querulous relatives and mounting piles of manure Grace? Or is it a trap? Is this a new beginning? Or the beginning of a new end?
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