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When I was eight years old, my coal miner Dad told me, "Son, come on and go with me." We walked down off that West Virginia mountain to the hollow where the train tracks led to nearby Sophia, WV a mile away. We walked in silence and I had no idea what was going on.

I was the third of four boys and the fourth of six children. My Dad was a good man with some rough edges. His language could peel the paint off the water tower and the whippings he put on his children were legendary. Dad never went to church, although Mom had all six children there every Sunday without fail. (God blessed her faithfulness: two of the boys became preachers.)

What happened that day was a puzzle.