I was raised in a lukewarm house where things had a tendency to come and go but some stayed, put down roots, and became memories a boy’s mind stuffed in its pockets like receipts. As a preacher’s son I knew well the exile’s thought about being spewed out of God’s mouth for such tepidity, but I also knew the Revelator wrote of blooded-bridles and dragon-tails so I heard his words as those of a dreamer, of a boy much like me. In a house not too hot or not too cold (maybe just right) I could carry a tune in the youth choir on Sunday evenings then Monday morning carry a spiral-bound notebook covered with Farrah Fawcett in that only begotten red swimsuit for after all, I believed, she was an angel. If God should’ve chosen to spit me out there was nowhere I could be spit apart from His presence, not the wings of the morning nor the uttermost parts of the sea. I learned this mercy, for I was raised in a lukewarm house.