It was already raining lightly when I left the office late Friday afternoon. By the time I merged onto the interstate, the gentle summer rain had turned into a gushing torrent of water. Somewhere along I-459 south of Birmingham, I could barely seen the tail lights of the car creeping along in front of me.
Traffic was bumper to bumper in all three lanes of each direction. We inched along dangerously. I was afraid of what I might hit as I kept going forward, but I was equally afraid of being hit in the rear if I didn’t move fast enough.
I simply couldn’t see what was going on — and I was afraid that trying to pull off the road was no better since I couldn’t see anything and others couldn’t see me.
So I moved along blindly — barely moving — as buckets of rain continued to fall from the sky.
And then I saw something that seemed like a faint shaft of light in the sky off to my right. The rain still beat down furiously, but where was that light coming from?

Rhetoric about freedom means nothing without right to secede
Urban Meyer’s drunken behavior points to deeper character issues
We can’t control timing of death, just what we do as we’re waiting
If you accept that you’re a fool, being wrong is a lot less scary
Slow culture changes might mean skin color matters less in future
Dead man’s watch always there to remind me of my own mortality
Good relationships need intimacy, but do they have to include sex?
Our need for love lets us ignore past pain and feel hope instead