Three ominous men stepped out of a black car -- suit-clad; dead-serious -- and onto our neighborhood street at eleven a.m.on Sunday. One of them -- the mastermind, no doubt -- had donned a charcoal cheese-cutter cap to ward off the soft sunlight. (
Evil, I thought.
Only evil people wear that sort of a cap on this kind of a soft day.) They carried books under their arms. But the red, ribbon bookmarks belied their content: Lo!
Bibles. Could they
still be evil?
My wife and I, sitting by the window and having our morning coffee/tea, let out a mutual groan.
These people. Not evil -- just pushy.
The conversation diced itself from a joyous repartee into stilted monosyllables as we continued to glance outside in order to ascertain how close they were coming to our door. There we were: two fat chickens awaiting the farmer's ax. Only
this farmer wielded a Bible as the ax and he intended to send a metallic chill through our cozy Sunday morning with one fell swing.
