This Girl America 

I was in line for coffee behind a girl, and we got to talking pleasantries as we waited. I asked her her name.

“America,” she said.  

“How old are you?”

“About 250.”

“You look pretty rough, even for 250, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“Yeah,” she said.  “I’ve had some trying times.”

Awkward silence.  We waited for the barista.  

“Any idea who can save me?” she asked.

“You need saving?”

“Sure,” she said.  “Doesn’t everybody?”

“Good point.   Well, sure.  The only One who was able to save me.”

“Is he powerful?  I like power.”

“Well, yes and no.  He was a Middle Eastern carpenter’s kid, but He’s also the Son of God.”

The barista finally came.  “$2.75,” he told America.  

“It’s okay,” I told him.  “I got it.”

Figured the conversation would be worth the cup of coffee.


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