The heavy oak paneled door was firmly closed, its shiny brass latch securely locked — until she had taken her eyes off it for a moment. She had turned away from the door to return the broom to its cupboard when a gust of wind blew a shower of rustling variegated yellow, orange, brown and red detritus at her back and into the hallway yet again. She turned and stared in open mouthed disbelief at the wide open door, helpless...

God, are you there God? Things aren’t going well, I’m having a bad spell. The car is getting old, truth be told, it’s as old as you. It was slow to start this morning, then stalled without a warning, It has a light, that should have said, but it was dead. God, are you there God? My wife, she keeps complaining, she don’t like me profaning, She’s got too fat (she don’t like that), She used to be a beauty, now doesn’t do her...

Would such a God be worthy of our trust, Who took the iron in our souls and turned it all to rust? Who took our children from their mother’s breast, To cast them down with all the rest? Would he place that trust, himself, In other men, to spread with stealth? Or let them put down on the page, Their version of his truth, A truth that failed to grow with age? Would he have sent his son to die, Yet never think to wonder why,...