The Finger of God

“I have touched the very finger of God.”

It seems an arrogant statement to make, I know. Yet it is true… I have.

I was not responsible for the touch. Man is always reaching up to touch the hem of God’s robe, but to experience a touch from the Almighty requires divine grace on his part: an act of reaching down.

There have been many times throughout history when he chose people to be his instrument – where he reached down and nudged someone with instruction or direction. We chosen aren’t always the model of propriety or what humankind would necessarily expect to be God’s vessel, yet we have received an undeniable touch and must share his message.

I didn’t seek it or expect it. I stumbled into it – almost like a bully-poke in the chest… not aggressive, but certainly firm and meaningful. If I had heard his voice, I think he would have said, “This way, dummy. Don’t miss this thing I’ve created.”

I believe that when we step outside our mortal bodies and enter heaven, limitations are removed. While earthbound, our ability to understand the world around us is confined to that which our five senses can perceive. For example, on this earth, we deal in a pallet of viewable colors. In heaven, the supply of colors is endless – 1,000,000 crayons to name. But in that rare instance when God chooses to lay his finger on a mere mortal, he allows us to experience the joy to come when we will no longer wear mortal blinders. That is the full-sensory extravaganza I enjoyed. It was a luxurious, indescribable bliss which has made me yearn even more for my heavenly home.

Of course, it happened in the South – that place still described as the Bible Belt. A place given to beauty, manners, and charm where God leans a little closer. While I must admit that the “belt” is nearly rusted through and Southerners are becoming as hedonistic and immoral as the rest of the heathens, there are still enough churches per square mile that God can skip from place to place without touching the ground. That’s gotta count for something.

When you receive a touch from God, you also receive an immediate call to share it with others. I don’t mean to insert myself in the same conversation as St. Paul, Martin Luther, or Gandhi. But I now understand their unselfish need to write a few Epistles, start the Reformation, or lead the Indian people to freedom. God’s touch is an urging, a stirring within that cannot be denied.

I have felt that touch… from the very finger of God and he has asked me to share this word with you mortals walking the earth:

“Thou shalt not miss the opportunity to indulge in a deep-fried Oreo!”




On a recent trip to Stone Mountain, I stood next a shop selling funnel cakes, when God nudged me with a childhood memory of a Denver amusement park. He pushed me into the little shack where behold, the heavenly choir sang and an ethereal light brightened around menu item number 6: Deep Fried Oreos. I bought two orders to share with my people… That which is important to God must be shared.

I’m telling you, the most decadent, unbelievable party for your taste buds you will ever experience this side of heaven.


Deep-fried Oreos, people!

My work here is done. I’m spent. I wonder how big the deep-frier is in heaven?



Old Red is Not Dead

“Old Red is not dead,” I proclaimed sadly as a reentered the house last week. It is a spring ritual here where the pollen coats the South in a pasty, yellow mist. Along with the budding azaleas and rejuvenated gardenias, the grass makes a clumpy appearance and I have to pull Old Red out of her graveyard under the back porch. Well, it isn’t a graveyard yet, because Old Red is not quite dead.

We’ve had Old Red for what must be sixteen years – well past her serviceable life. When my previous mower died, I saw her chained up outside the store with some other discounted models. Who can pass up a $400 mower for $87? Old Red called out to me in her shackles and I answered. The man said she had been returned because she leaked gas – which made her a perfect complement to my family, so I brought her home. Turns out a little duct tape on a leaky tube and she’s never spewed gas again. Wish I could say the same for my family.

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