I seem to be reflecting on incidents where I have lost my temper.
This morning, while walking along the pier, I chanced to look off to the right and saw the highwater mark for the flood of 1924. It is a painful memory of a time when the Cross River rose up and threatened to destroy the town.
It took a tremendous amount of time to convince the River to leave the town in peace. And it was not done without cost.
There was a traveling group of Protestants witnessing in the area. I had asked them, politely, to leave Cross alone. The town has little to do with religion, and I didn’t want the witnesses whipping a dead horse. If someone in Cross wanted to go to service, then they would. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t.
Well, the witnesses were adamant about the whole business and attempted to make me see reason. We spoke a little longer, and they finally beat a hasty retreat when I threatened to free them of the burden of being fruitful and multiplying.
While they avoided me, the witnesses remained in town, and when the opportunity came to help them leave Cross alone, I took it.
I feigned a change of heart to the witnesses and asked if they would baptize me at the Marina. They agreed, of course, and once they gathered to me, I made certain that they had their backs to the water. When I saw the river rise up to embrace the witnesses, I retreated to a higher position.
I watched as the water snapped out in long, undulating coils, and swept the Protestants up.
Their screams of fear and panic were muffled instantly as the River accepted the sacrifice I had provided.
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