After the sun gave way to a magnificent moon, and the dinner dishes were stashed in the dishwasher, I headed over to church for a committee meeting. The residual winter light was pale, at best, but the road fairly bright because of the spotlight of a full moon. My church is one in a row of places of worship on a two-laned, quiet little road. We're all lined up neatly, the Presbyterians, the Episcopalians, the Baptists, etc., and except for traffic jams when we get out of church Sunday at the same time, nothing too thrilling happens along church row. (Of a physical nature. The metaphysical is another matter.)
I had to slow down to see what was blocking a large portion of the road. A big rig with a huge trailer was half-in, half-out of the road. Since we never see big rigs on this tiny bit of road, I took a good look in the wavering moonlight. "Beretta" was emblazoned on the truck driver's door, and a fancy wrap with pictures of black, sleek handguns decorated the trailer section. It idled on the side of the road, the black and gray designs of the guns fading quickly into the night, and I couldn't help but wonder who on earth would get lost on church row with a rig full of Berettas.
Then again, maybe the truck hadn't been lost. Hmmm. Churches as agents of violent change? I couldn't imagine it on our quiet strip of road. But I felt as if I'd just seen a Yeti on Easter Sunday in the deep South.
That surprise factor is what keeps me reading a book. The juxtaposition of the mundane, the everyday world with an off-kilter jab in the gut. Like those children's books where you're supposed to pick out what doesn't belong in the picture, the Beretta truck had me wondering, imagining, curious. and eager to know more.
I don't. Know more, that is. But I can imagine all I want, and there's a story in there somewhere.