Spurgeon's Cigar

It is 1am. The sky is clear and bright with stars. I find in this illuminating light a comfort I’ve never known before. Let me briefly explain. Just a few nights ago, at this same time, we were visited by a light so brilliant and so terrible, we knew we would die. The flock scatters violently. And I realize there are no wolves chasing them. Our faces are swiftly buried in the dirt, arms curled over our heads, concealing anything we can. My eyes burn with light, even though they are closed and covered. We are a shivering mass of fear and trepidation. Finally, a voice speaks. It is not the voice of a man. But its tone assures us that we will not die. This voice is clear and unmistakable. It is also powerful. Unapproachable, the light becomes discernible. Yet, its beauty is no less radiant. We look and listen but cannot move. Then, it is gone. How we arrive there, I am unsure. We startle them initially. She tries to hide, and he prepares to fight. We all speak...