Bang. A gun shot. Don’t worry, we’re in the country, they must be hunting. Hunting what?
The phone rings. You answer. Bang. Another gun shot, this time through the phone in the form of bad news. Your heart drops again. You hang up, wondering, what’s that Mat Kearney song? “I guess we‘re all one phone call from our knees.”
Bang. Another gun shot, hours later. What’s he after? What am I after? What are we all hunting? Did that phone call stop my search or start it?
If today is a bad day, how do all the other days compare? What about the great days? What about those?
Bang. Not a gun shot anymore, just memories; coping, comparing the heart breaks: Your arm put in a cast on your eighth birthday. The crushed front bumper of your sports car. The end of something before it began. A false friend. An empty room.
A phone call. A gun shot. It’s really all the same.