I’ve pedaled a swath of southern hills they call the Bible Belt. Saints and sinners defined by creed, the kinds of churches like colors of cars. Cigarettes are always welcome, and beer’s against the law, but a house in Butler holler gives comfort from the cross, Southern Comfort on the rocks. Here I find a sweet relief. Jesus and home folk hear it all, and know a truth a preacher taught, but not the one He brought. I came to bring you life, He said, but dogma holds them back, holding forth the word of church rejecting one great offer.