On the occasion of that National Memorial I was at work. I was in the process of correcting a problem at a water pressure reducing station near a creek crossed by Rising Hill Road in El Dorado County, Ca. My truck's radio was on and when the service began I turned of the pump that was draining the P.R.S. vault, and I rested my chin on my arms which were crossed atop the truck's tool box. It was a park-like setting. The creek was below me.
Oh beautiful for spacious skies For amber waves of grain . . .
Two does stepped into the clearing - then a yearling - then four fawns - all casually picking up this year's bountiful acorn crop, just now being shed from the white oaks.
I was granted a glimpse of The Garden. I knew it and thanked God for this momentary relief from the horror of the week. I knew that the moment was personal and special. I was rocked.
Apparently my wife sensed something "wrong" with me that evening. She inquired as to my "troubled" expression.
"Nothing's wrong, Hon."
I began to relate to her "My Service" on rising Hill Road, and in attempting to voice the experience I absolutely disintegrated.
Marian had not been able to take in the Memorial so we turned to C-SPAN and watched and recorded. The entire service - from the remarks of the Imam to the singing of the Battle Hymn of the Republic was one of three "events" in my 57 years where God's Grace was shed on me.
FReegards,
FReegards,