In this issue:
One morning this spring I returned with groceries to my car (and to our dog, Poochie, with her head sticking out the car window) in the parking lot of the grocery store. A man was sitting in a car near my car. He also had a dog in his car.
As I began to put my groceries in the car, the man asked me if I knew where the local cemetery is located. He said that he was going there to buy a cemetery plot for himself, and then said something (I do not remember exactly how he put it) that made me think that he was alone in the world. I did not know where the cemetery was located, so I looked it up on my phone and gave him the directions.
The man thanked me and then began to tell me about himself. He said that a couple years ago he almost committed suicide. He said he had not killed himself because of his dog. He then pointed skywards with one hand and added, “—and because of the Big Guy.” His gratitude for being saved from a hell of despair was palpable.
He told me that he had been injured when working and that he was now living on income from disability insurance. Our conversation lasted just a few minutes. When we parted, he offered me a little bag of dog biscuits as a gift for Poochie.
This man did not describe his experience in the language of formal religion. Yet everything he said was about what religion is about. He gave Poochie the dog treats, and he gave me the gift of his experience of saving Grace.