A few years ago my daughter Lillian and I were
walking down the main street of the city where we
lived.
Lillian, then about 3 years old, was sort of marching
along right behind me, holding on to my belt as we
went.
At a certain point on the sidewalk, Lillian stumbled
and fell, pulling my pants down as she did. I thus found
myself on the city's main drag, pants down, standing
next to my 3-year-old as heavy traffic whizzed by us.
I looked around, mortified, then quickly corrected
the situation, snatching up my trousers and imploring
Lil the Thrill in future to refrain from holding on to
them as she marched.
When we got home, I related the adventure to my
loving and supportive wife, Pamela, who spent the next
10 minutes rolling on the floor, literally, convulsed in no
doubt good-natured but slightly irksome laughter.
She guffawed between clutching her aching sides,
"What kind of underwear did you have on?”
She then rang up my loving and supportive mother-in-
Iaw, Sandra, and the two of them bonded in several
more minutes of no doubt good-natured, but even more
irksome laughter.
My mother-in-law said, "Well, if he's going to do
that, he might as well go down to Chippendales (a
celebrated men's strip club) and make some money at
it."
Go ahead, laugh. This is a book about religious
faith, after all.
My point? If you had been one of the motorists
who passed Lillian and me that day, and you had seen
a bewildered looking dude, sans pants (but with really