My uncle insists that he accepted God into his heart when he was six years old.
His daddy was a preacher too, his momma stickthin red-headed submissive and lovely he remembers them as lovely folk, but he was lonely.
Art did not exist back in those days neither did color television, sometimes the sunshine raised too much hell for babes to go outside.
He was lonely, he insists, he knew that he did not belong on Planet Earth if the universe was a legitimate thing (nobody knew for sure in those days).
He decided to believe in God like his daddy at the promise that Jesus would ride him on a rocket ship to Mars or Heaven or something after his body staled, but I argued that he must have wanted to be dead
sooner than his time because space and Heaven are really great things, he must have wanted to **** myself for them.
I did not believe him until he told me that mental hospitals did not exist back in those days else they would have put him in one. Somehow he turned seventy last week, still breathing.