The driftwood was sun-bleached & tangled in seaweed. It looked like the jawbone of a giant that a god more superior than we can ever fathom threw upon the beach. To be a child again and have such whimsical thoughts once more, to believe in giants and gods, and a God. 'I am a man,' I think. 'I am an adult. It's not about gods or a God hurling jawbones upon an empty beach. It's about storms and tides, saltwater, and the sun. I continue to stroll the barren shore. It is late autumn, and the cold wind keeps most people away. Then, finally, I arrive at a hastily constructed teepee-like structure. It was the work of children, tourists, no doubt, here for the summer - here for a day on the coast of Maine. I place my rainjacket on the sandy ground inside the structure and crawl in. 'Here,' I think, 'this is where I will wait for those giants. This is where I will wait for God.'