try to keep my mind stretched around both experiences of God: the transcendent, the intimate. And then,” he said, grinning briefly, “there are the days when I think that underneath it all, God has got to be a cosmic comedian.” Anne looked at him, brows up. “Anne, the Good Lord decided to make D.W. Yarbrough a Catholic, a liberal, ugly and gay and a fair poet, and then had him born in Waco, Texas. Now I ask you, is that the work of a serious Deity?”
