The seagulls circled above like the ghetto bird hovering over Florence and Normandie. Who knew that a calm Monday afternoon at RAT Beach was conspicuously camouflaging the riot-like demeanor that pulsated underneath the pastor’s holy garb. He curiously walked over the sandy hill to get a glimpse of the object of the seagulls’ affection. A halibut, lifeless where the ocean kisses the shore, lay with its bones exposed to the salty Pacific air.
The dead fish, staring the pastor in the eyes, projected his ironic reality as if a movie premiere on a busy Friday night.
So, the pastor walked away and shared God’s story with the first person who would listen.