It was 1995, and everything was happening all at once. Clinton was in the White House, the millennium was drawing to a close, and the Church was under attack, we were told. Meanwhile, the Olympics were coming to Atlanta, and our quiet corner of north Alabama felt like it was about to touch the world.
In the church parking lot, a standoff was taking place. The pastor’s teenage son was facing the fast talking stranger. It was night; it was cold. Puffs of exhaled breath drifted upward, disappearing into the dirty amber glow of the parking lot lights.
All right, stand back, said the cocky stranger. I’m gonna show you something.
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