Forget the Bible.
DAY 114: For years they have intrigued me. I’ve watched their interviews and demonstrations on TV and YouTube. They travel the world, hailing from the innocuous center of Kansas and America. They call themselves Baptists — supposed believers of the same Jesus I follow.
As I park my car in a Topekan residential area, I approach 12th Street with a distinct shudder.
27 years ago, I was born on Good Friday. I spent that Easter Sunday of 1987 in a blessed hospital, though the specifics are a bit fuzzy.
I haven’t celebrated a “true” Good Friday birthday since I was 5 years old, and I won’t celebrate another Good Friday birthday until I turn 84. This year, my mid-April birthday fell closer to Good Friday than it has in the last decade of Good Fridays.
I am not a vile person.
I’m a sensitive guy. One of those guys who has restrained his burps for 25 years because I know it’s gross when someone next to you burps like a blow-horn.