A CUSTOM
Let me sing to you a story of a man and his God. His name was Hal, and he had prevailed in life for an abundance of years. He had survived losing a son in a senseless car wreck and a wife to cancer. Hal had two additional children for family, but you could catch the submerged scars in his stroll, and you may behold the deep remorse on his image. But Hal was always at worship when Sunday morning came around. Once, when the Sunday weather was foul and the roads carried a creamy composition of callous ice, Hal was one of the few who ventured out for Sunday worship. I asked him, “Why did you drive in so far today?” He would just mumble beneath his breath something about “It is a custom for me,” and shake your hand while wandering out the door. Again, when surprised one early Sunday folding bulletins in the narthex, I inquired, “Hal, what are…
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