Her moniker was as striking as her neon pink hair, and her sadness was a powerful homily.
One day, a colorful-looking young woman with pink hair, a black leather jacket and ripped jeans was climbing the steep road beside my local market. She was really weighed down with a large backpack and several grocery bags clutched in each fist.
That’s my kinda’ gal, I thought, remembering my college days when I went everywhere on foot, and I always — always — bought far more groceries than I could carry. It was a habit that was and still is analogous to my life. So, I pulled up beside her …
“Need a lift?”
A look of relief flashed across her pale, pierced-up face as she struggled into my passenger seat, which was surprisingly empty that day. I typically travel with at least one of my seven sons. But this kid-free trip turned out to be providential. As soon as the petite young woman was settled, I got a chance to check out the spiky dog collar around her neck (while her eyes silently acknowledged the crucifix around mine).
I immediately sensed we’d have a meaningful conversation. A thought flashed, Maybe
