The man was dying in the desert, got on his knees and begged to God, “Please help me, I’m starving, nearly dead, too tired to continue looking for water. I don’t want to hurt anymore. Please, almighty Lord, take pity, end my suffering.” God, in his infinite wisdom, sent the man a baby. An infant to take care of. And so the man had purpose, a reason to stay alive. I remember thinking the story didn’t make sense. Why not just send him food, water, a bed? God stories always seemed to work that way. Sideways, convoluted. Like one of those elaborate chain-reaction machines built in the most
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