We sit. We’re in it again: the “it” that doesn’t fit neatly. “I’ll ask you this question,” he says. “Who do you say God is?” I’m about to say, “I don’t.” But I’m looking out the window. “I’m looking at the clouds,” I tell him. “Not like ‘up in heaven.’ But—creation is beautiful. Even a parking lot—” Across the parking lot, behind the gas station, there’s a little yellow house. Really just a hut. Like lemon meringue pie, with a silver-gray roof. Nothing special, just a pretty little bit of color.
