It’s 8:18 on the back roads of Pennsylvania and I’m hunting for a tower.

In the alley, the clock glows like a cat’s-eye moon.

The familiar pile of debris is quite dramatic in the snow.

There is nothing more isolating than darkness.

I am finding it hard to keep up with the young, black pastor’s flow of words.

“Isn’t this landscape beautiful?” the woman asks.

At 8:18 tonight, the view from the plane window is stunning.

The clouds above us are twisted, as if the sun has wrestled them to break through.

It’s hard not to notice the mustachioed man with his shaggy shirt.

This blog started a year ago with two questions from Jesus.

The long, garden shrouds are the perfect ending my glum rule-of-three walk.

Wrapping, I realize, is just the final touch of anticipation.