Once upon a time, I spoke with God. It was a short conversation and He did most of the talking.
I swear this is all true. Here is an abbreviated version of that event.
The year was 1968. I was eighteen years old. I was in the desert of Arizona, hitchhiking back home to Miami from California when, late in the afternoon, an old, blue pickup truck stopped and offered me a ride. The man driving was an Apache Indian just a few years older than I. His name was Jimmy. And seeing as how it was getting late, he invited me to spend the night with him on the reservation.
After we ate, we walked out into the dark desert and sat upon a small hillock, looking west to where the sky was an electric orange as the sun kissed the earth. I laid back and closed…
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