A village pastor traveled a jungle trail, hardly noticing sharp pebbles as mud squished up between his toes. He followed the path automatically as it wound left, right, left again, around thorn-thickets growing beneath towering trees. Sunlight filtered through staggered, leafy layers of overhead canopy fueling fast growing under-brush. Energized in sticky late afternoon heat, insects droned and whined, though after a lifetime in the jungle only silence would have startled him.
His left hand waved away a wasp, while his right felt the solid lump, safe in his pocket. He’d run out of thread weeks ago. But fortunately, filaments stripped from a vine fit the needle’s eye allowing him to fix the remaining white sack in his fraying shorts. It should hold its precious cargo, but his hand remained, protecting his connection with a bigger world.