As a boy, I spent my summers on a farm in Knox County, Texas belonging to my Uncle Charles and Aunt Gladys. There were many reasons I loved being there, but one of my favorite reasons was that we slept outside under the stars with some regularity. It was really hot in the summer, and the house never seemed to cool off. We slept in the yard to soak up enough coolness to be able to face the next day. It was practical.

For a boy like myself it was also an adventure. It was something different. It felt just a little dangerous out there in the wide open. And the stars were really, really pretty. Actually, I looked for almost any excuse to curl up outside.

Another reason I loved the farm was that my aunt and uncle subscribed to National Geographic. They saved back issues for me all year, and I loved digging through them. I would be engrossed in the wonderful maps for hours.

Of course, from time to time there would be an article about some faraway tribe replete with photographs featuring females who did not wear clothing covering the top half of their bodies. Of course, I took care that I was not seen examining these articles and attendant photographs. Of course, I always advertised that my sole interest in the periodical was the maps and the scientific content.

And it was true that I was fascinated with maps. And I did find the scientific content very interesting.

But I had committed an outright act of dishonesty by denying any knowledge of the semi-nude photographs. Lying and lusting. I knew I had an express ticket to hell. I had no intention of repenting. Really, I was going to hell.

This particular summer, I was perusing my favorite magazine when it was suddenly there in black and white. I read the words again to see if I had it right. Yep.  I had. It was true. It was a warning from National Geographic, and we all know this is a periodical to take seriously.

Apparently, the possibility existed that a person somewhere on the planet could actually get killed by a piece of meteorite that failed to burn up in the atmosphere. The odds were infinitesimally small. I mean, just barely in the range of possibility. But that’s all it took for me. I was off to the psychiatric races.

The article made it clear that I would not hear it coming and I may not be safe unless maybe I was in the bottom of Carlsbad Caverns. Basically, I could be just minding my own business and with no hint of warning an errant piece of rock could shoot down out of the sky faster than a freight train and kill me deader than dirt. There seemed to be no escape.

A few weeks later, Uncle Charles declared it a night for sleeping outside. All of the bedding was prepared and they were settling down when he asked where I was. I could hear him through the open window to my room, and I froze. I had been planning  on staying inside.

Aunt Gladys reported that I was not coming outside because I was afraid I would get hit by a meteor.

Uncle Charles, a farmer and engineer, a WWII veteran, intelligent and practical, pondered for a moment.  “Well that is kind of silly,” he said. “That roof wouldn’t even slow a meteor down.”

“Charles Amos,” Gladys hissed. “Really. You know how he is!” And I could hear that she was making for the house to check on me.

I was beyond horrified. I was about to panic. I gathered up my pillow and blanket. We met at the door. She saw me, my eyes wild. She stopped, held the door and let me pass.  I went straight to the cellar in the backyard we used for shelter from tornadoes.  It is where I slept for most of the rest of the summer.

I was going to hell for lying and lusting, and now I was certain the tool God was going to use was a confounded meteor.  But I wasn’t going to make it easy.