One town over, they’re digging up the wrong daughter with a backhoe. I hear this on the news, and start seriously looking for God. Not a ray of light, or a pocket of warm air, or a hologram – I want the real thing. I want the tall man with the big book and the deep voice and the robes.
I’ve looked for God before, off and on anyway, but now I think I might have found him on CNN. And, in a few other surprising places, too. Like inside the tiny chocolate crosses in my Advent calendar, skinny-dipping in Lake Michigan, and yelling in absentia at the Dalai Lama.
In April, two college students from my area were victims of a violent car accident. Both evangelical Christians, one lived, one died. The coroner mixed up their identities and one student’s body had to be exhumed. With a backhoe. It was more than a month before the mistake was discovered. Not even their grieving parents knew.
As an adult adoptee, and newly single after two decades of marriage, I have my own identity questions. The sad tale of the two students, Whitney Cerak and Laura VanRyn, struck a personal note with me, bordering on a fixation. Tiny Chocolate Crosses is my spiritual memoir about the affects of mistaken identity. Through an assortment of breaking news, Buddhism, Christianity, and my everyday life, I seek, and find, a spiritual foothold. Think Anne Lamott’s Traveling Mercies meets Jon Krakauer’s Into the Wild.
You've got a GREAT first sentence.
Leave out the God stuff, (sorry Big Guy); in fact leave out all of paragraph two and you've got yourself a read.