If memory serves — after all, it has been 32 years — I was somewhere between New Orleans, Louisiana, and Waycross, Georgia.  It was late winter, but the southern air was mild and the sun brightened the sky.

Hitchhiker’s weather, to be sure.

I was waiting at a rest stop with my thumb stuck out when a pickup towing a large camper lumbered to a halt in front of me.  I climbed in and uttered my heartfelt thanks.

The driver, wearing a red flannel coat in hunter’s plaid, surprised me by identifying himself as a pastor on vacation.  He asked the usual questions — where was I headed, where was I from, why was I traveling this way — then launched into his story.

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