9:17 A.M.
I wake to Gillian yelling in the backyard, “Praise Jesus!…Jesus is our Lord savior!…We are loved and cradled by Him!” Morning wood is upright between my legs and I have to take a piss to rid of the mass. Bernie is in a fetal position on the bed, snoring and out cold. I climb out of bed, careful not to wake him, and move up to the bedroom’s window, which overlooks the yard that leads and slopes down to the lake. What I see is rather not shocking at all, although some would be surprised by it.
Gillian has three Adirondack chairs lined up in a row. Brett and Tom sit in two of the chairs. The third chair is empty. Gillian stands in front of the chairs. She’s dressed in a white muumuu, white headband, and white tennis shoes. In her left hand is the thickest Bible I have ever seen an
