Buechner in his grandparents’ garden as a boy

There were tomato worms, peagreen and fat, bedecked like floats in a Chinese New Year’s parade, and a tiny scarlet bug no bigger than the head of a pin that I watched once move across the moonscape of a rock that I was playing hide-and-seek behind, knowing even then that I would never forget him for the rest of my days as indeed I never have, the meeting of that boy and that bug half a century ago, before time started.

Frederick Buechner. Sacred Journey, 1982.

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