Dear Eric, Dusty Clinton Township kids making paper roosters and snowballs, showing each other the moves of chess . . . I had a two-year jump on you in everything. Much later, after I was filled with the Spirit and began to testify, we had less to teach each other. I was swallowed up in marvels and taken on the edge of glory. I think of us that time we went out in your father's car . . . raising high trails of dust; we battered the back roads, arguing miracles of the Holy Ghost. You would not learn from my quick belief. O, Eric, I had a high, pure falling when the Spirit left me and I felt mortally fooled. What to do now that two years running after God was dust and ashes? Waiting for a revelation, I studied rope--smiling, remembering (years and years ago) our hands racing towards some slender knot . . . sheepshank, halfhitches, hangman's noose. I thought how a taut line points towards God. Danny