An enormous truck’s flatbed well above my head sat beside me in traffic. Piled high were broad, healthy, stunning logs smiling down at me, whose circumference – stretched out in length – might very well guide me all the way Home.
In a flash, I knew that they knew their time of sacrifice had come. Like Peter crucified upside-down and James, whose head laid lifeless on the ground, I could feel the joy emanating forth from the living center of each slaughtered log on that bed.
Now, I sit, offended. Offended because I know that the family soon to reside within the shelter of their sacrifice will never greet the martyrs beneath their feet.
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