Come home to me stranger, and let me welcome you as Christ might have, if he ever existed to begin with. We take our gods where we can get them, homemade always. There is divinity in every skinned knee on dusty asphalt, in every lone general store standing sentinel. We don’t put much faith in the Lord out here. Sure, there’s a church, 100 years old this August, but the thing is we know that for every child’s carved initial in a wooden pew there is something rotten to be born no matter how hard you pray. And sure, we say Grace at suppertime every time but the thing is we watch the tree line out of the corner of our eyes and swear one day it will swallow us all whole.