When our dear widowed and remarried father landed in Jerusalem and became a born-again Jew, he let us know in no uncertain terms that we should prepare to enter the Great Hall because this world is only a corridor. He let us know that when you stack seventy or eighty human years against the promise of eternity then all the playing rules in the here-and-now have got to be different.
Which is all I manage to write before Dad pops through my kitchen door on the way to my basement storage room, balancing a pair of white plastic milk crates. "Remember these? I found them deep in the