Occasionally, I used to visit the place called God’s Kingdom. It lay quiet as a kitten where two rivers flow, and for a time it was my kingdom. Here I was given the three little churches nobody wanted, and I think perhaps preachers do not go there anymore. It was a world of foghorns and tugboats cutting slices through my bedroom window at 3 a.m. and sharing life with one determined river rat that refused to vacate the parsonage. Along with M. Rat, I was given a thousand potholes on those muddy roads, one awesome flood, and some yellow finches in Titus Holler and road kill. If ever I stood...