Bone and metal make horrid playmates. Liz Beth Charlton experienced this timeless truth when the rear axle of her Cadillac pulverized her tibia, trapping her left leg against the gravel of a breakdown lane of a west Texas highway.

The August sun was at half-mast, but the heat was already forming mirages in the distance along the tarmac when Liz Beth shuddered out of shock. From a prone position on her back, she ratcheted her head in the gravel away from the mirages, creating a muted rattle at the base of her skull. The vibrations clicked and clacked into her awakening mind.

Liz sprawled on her back at roughly a forty-five degree angle from the car, halfway down the wall of a barren arroyo that maintained a jaggedly parallel course to the breakdown lane. The gravel littering the breakdown lane tapered into progressively larger chunks lining the slope descending into the ditch. A finger of granite poked Liz’s back between her spine and right shoulder blade. A jack handle lay just out of reach to her side. A flat tire rested in the arroyo.

She pushed against the gravel, forcing herself into a semi-sitting position, her right hand sliding in the gravel a few inches before it caught. Liz’s jaw clamped. Her nose crunched. Her cheeks pressed against her eyes. Her skull pounded like it was in a pressure chamber. Streams of breath shot out through her clenched teeth.

I’m going to lose my leg.

Liz slumped back to the ground, maneuvering subconsciously in an unsuccessful attempt to avoid the granite spurs in her back. The Cadillac’s chassis obscured her legs from view below the knees, but the dead-red stain creeping up her left blue jean leg was a bad sign.

Liz shuffled her head to the right and winced again, sucking in a mouthful of dust. She imagined Ricardo Montalban pontificating on the purity of west Texas roadside dust: “Ah, the purest and finest blend.” Liz spat a dust ball.

Her right leg had some play in it; her left felt like it was in a trash compactor. She ventured one pull with it and screamed. Somehow, Ricardo helped with the pain.

“Soon, my dear Liz,” Ricardo said, “you won’t feel the leg anymore. It’s the sun that’s your problem.” His voice was smoother than the stone David slung at Goliath. “And critters, I reckon.”

Liz swiveled her head toward the mirages on the pavement and then back toward the front of the Cadillac. Ricardo took a seat and reclined against the front wheel well.

“A Ricardo Montalban that says critters and reckon,” Liz said. “Figures.” Her words came out choppy.

“No one gives me much credit, but I am an actor,” Ricardo said. “I’m feelin’ the role. Getting’ into character. Perhaps I should have said varmints instead of critters.”

“I liked you as Khan.”

“Thank you, my dear.” Smooth, like Corinthian leather. “Remember, sun and varmints.”

 The desert surrounding the highway reminded Liz of a set for a moon hoax. “No one’s coming,” she said.

Ricardo pointed up at the sky. Liz spied a hovering bird with considerable wingspan before the sun blinded her. She slammed her eyes shut. The negative image of the vulture circled the back of her eyelids.

With her sight temporarily suspended, Liz noticed the state of her lips. They were forming grooves. Her tongue darted around the chafing contours of her mouth, unable to provide moisture. Dust clung to the inside walls of her mouth. Her teeth grated against each other like she was chewing sandpaper.

“Li’l lady,” Ricardo said in a decent LBJ tone. He cocked his head and rolled his eyes toward the rear of the Cadillac.

Liz thought she heard a stifled roar in the direction of the mirages. She tested her eyes. Still a bit sun-blinded, but through the mirage she thought something was approaching.

“It ain’t real,” she said. She repositioned her hands from the desert floor to her belly to escape the heat of the rocks. Her palms rested under the Don’t Mess With Texas logo of her T-shirt. The pre-heat cycle of the west Texas oven was almost complete.

“I reckon it could be, Missy,” Ricardo said.

Liz ventured another look at the mirage, forcing her into a crunch position. Her abdomen clenched after five seconds. Her muscles wavered under the strain. Her left leg hurled knives up her torso. She managed to spot a sedan emerging from the mirage.

Liz released and plunged back to the rocks. The Doppler effect of the approaching vehicle alerted Liz that rescue was moments away. She raised her hands in the air, flailing. A muffled cry leaked from her throat.

The sedan’s tires wailed as the car rocketed past. Pebbles from the interstate clattered against the Cadillac’s bumper and undercarriage. One struck Liz’s outstretched arm and fell to rest beside her shoulder. A puff of dust swirled around Liz in a lazy cloud.

Through the dust Liz saw the rear of the receding vehicle. A bumper sticker read: Honk if you love Jesus.

“Did you see the fish on the bumper?” Ricardo asked.

“I saw it,” Liz said. The words came out like sludge. “It looked like it had legs.”

“One did,” Ricardo said. “There was another, bigger fish swallowing that one whole. It was a fish labeled truth.”

“I always wondered about those,” Liz said.

“I wouldn’t think too much about being eaten right now, Li’l lady.”

*          *          *

Pastor Richard Curley of the First Presbyterian Church of San Antonio mashed the accelerator of his rented Ford SUV. El Paso was still a long way off and the conference would not wait. If he could just make a good impression this year, things would be looking up.

Curley inserted a CD, pressed track 7, and began to sing something about working on a building for the Lord.

Up ahead a piece, he saw a blinding reflection as if a giant were aiming the sun’s rays into his eyes off an oversized watch. Curley released the accelerator slightly. The SUV barely reacted.

Why would there be a car disabled all the way out here? Curley attempted to convince himself there was not a woman sprawled out by the side of the car. It didn’t work.

Pastor Curley pressed the brake slightly. The SUV decelerated to sixty miles an hour. He cut the music. The SUV approached the stranded car. Curley recognized it as a Cadillac. No smoke, no body damage.

You’ll be late for the conference, he thought. Besides, if she was in trouble, she would have called for help on her cell phone.

“Cell phones might be dead out here,” he said.

What else would she be doing out here, if she weren’t in trouble? Conference or no conference, you’ve got to stop.

Curley scanned the roadside as the SUV passed. Looks like there’s a bunch of hiding places in that ditch, he thought. They could be hiding in the trunk or back seat. That’s how they do it. You stop to help a lady; they jump you. It’s pretty desolate out here.

“It’s desolate because it’s a desert. That’s why she needs you. She could die out here.”

Nope, he thought. This uneasy feeling I have must be the Spirit warning me against stopping. I can get to the conference on time and help her both. I’ll put in a call from the next town.

“Next town’s a long way off. Don’t forget.”

Pastor Curley said a prayer for the distressed motorist as the SUV sped away, accelerating into the mirages. By the time he reached the next town, he had forgotten, reflecting on a chorus of Old Time Religion.

*          *          *

The first ant felt like a tickle along Liz’s right ankle. The tickle progressed along her calf underneath her blue jeans, and then around her shin. A second tickle joined it, then a third.

The first bite came on her Achilles’ tendon. It was liked being pinched with needle-nosed pliers. Liz convulsed with the thought of a marabunda, a swarm of ants devouring everything in their path. Unfortunately, she was in their path, and in the desert, everything was hungry.

She visualized them marching methodically up her legs, skinning her ankles before proceeding to the meatier bonanza of her calves. She wondered if ants were capable of tearing her blue jeans off to get at her thighs. Texas ants were Texas-sized, too. Where was James Arness?

A Texas-sized mandible latched on to Liz’s inner thigh. Liz shrieked, slapping her self viciously below the waist. When they discovered the blood on her left leg, it would be a feeding frenzy. Does blood attract ants?

Another bite in the soft flesh below Liz’s right knee caused black spots to form in her vision. Her head swooned and weaved a course back to the slope of the arroyo. Liz saw mirages everywhere, and wondered why the blinding sun was fading into darkness. Her last thought was stirring up ant beds with a stick as a child, and tossing insects into the swarm. Ant armies knew no mercy.

A slap across her cheek obliterated the mirages. Ricardo stood over her, a leg straddled on either side of her chest.

“Critters,” he said. “I told you. Critters.”

“Huh,” Liz said. She propped herself on her elbows, the earth digging into her arms as if seeking revenge for a century of strip mines. Another bite ripped at her calf.

“There’s still time,” Ricardo said. He pointed at a spot a few feet to the front and side of the Cadillac.

Liz cocked her head to the side and surveyed the spot. She squinted. A line of red ants emerged from a hole at the crest of the ditch.

“Pheromones,” Ricardo said. “They track with pheromones. You need to act, Missy.”

Liz grabbed a handful of rocks and heaved them at the line of ants. The sortie struck the line full on, blasting ants out of the column in a shockwave. A four inch gap in the line appeared. Ants on either side of the gap commenced to circling in disarray.

Liz scooped another handful and demolished the head of the ant column. A bite on the instep of her foot resulted in a direct assault on the ant colony aperture. Liz sprayed the crease between the Cadillac and the breakdown lane with several shots. When the dust cleared, the ants were gone.

Liz squeezed a couple of spots in her jeans and felt sickening squishes. “Thanks, Ricardo,” she said. There was no answer. The desert was quiet.

“I guess I can at least go to the bathroom in privacy out here,” Liz said.

*          *          *

Liz watched the sun descend behind a ridge in the distance. She thought God had provided a gorgeous tapestry for her to die by. It reminded her of Edward G. Robinson dying in Soylent Green, amidst piped-in, pleasant music and projected images of flowers, gardens, and nature.

But why would God leave me out here to die in the dust?

“Have you prayed once since you got caught out here?” Ricardo asked. “Why should He care?”

“You’re a delusion,” Liz said. “Kinda like those mirages on the road. Probably caused by a lack of food and water.”

“A delusion that saved your life, don’t forget. Maybe I’m an angel.”

“If you were an angel, you’d have found a way to get me out of this. You’d of flagged down one of those cars.”

“You didn’t answer me,” Ricardo said. Have you prayed?”

“You already know the answer,” Liz said. Liz noticed God’s orange and red tapestry fading to a deep violet. She glanced at the ant hole. Still no activity.

Liz faded to black in concert with the violet sky.

*          *          *

Liz awoke shivering. The cool of the desert night permeated her bones. She rubbed her arms with her hands, trying to create warmth through friction. She collapsed from the exertion. The time was near.

At least God had provided her another tapestry to die beneath. Miles from any city light, the stars shone in the darkness like true daughters of the big bang. Liz took one last good breath before she heard the rustling.

It came from behind her, a scratching in the desert gravel—a clumsy approach, not like the stalking of a big cat, but more like a reckless swagger. Liz heard a snarl and her swoon dissipated in one last glorious wave of adrenaline.

“Varmints,” Ricardo said in the dark, somewhere around the hood of the Cadillac. “Big ‘uns.”

Liz heard howling. A primitive and abandoned region of her mind calculated there might be five coyotes on the prowl. They were close. Soon she would feel steamy canine breath along the back of her neck, followed by wolf saliva dripping on her parched skin. Then the teeth would sink deep and rip and tear. Five jaws would rip and tear at once. Eaten alive.

Another subconscious recess in Liz’s mind guided her hand out to the jack handle. Her hand closed around it. It was one of those GM jack handles with the flip-out lug wrench fitting.

Liz’s conscious mind revolted. A trapped, depleted woman with a piece of iron versus a pack of wolves. Liz dropped the tire tool. It clanked on the desert floor. The rustling behind her ceased briefly, and resumed. The wolves were at the far side of the arroyo, not ten feet away.

Liz turned her head sideways and looked back across the ditch. The pack leader bared its teeth at her exposed neck. It snapped at one of its counterparts, growling, then took a step down the backside of the arroyo.

Liz thought of humanity’s protracted ascent from the world of tooth, claw, and fear to the world of comfort, grocery stores, and cell phones. The coyote took another step. Its teeth glistened in the starlight. They were monstrous. Its eyes were luminescent, and enlarging as it approached.

“Oh God help me” she said. Liz braced herself.

Two great white eyes bathed Liz in light. With her last remaining strength, Liz propped up to witness this inchoate interloper. Liz saw a hazy form through the dust, but heard a sound that reminded her of cities, and everything safe and civilized.

A horn blasted through the desert night, the aural equivalent of a lighthouse. The wolves scampered into the night, howling as they disappeared. Ricardo waved at Liz, and disintegrated.

Liz turned, half conscious, and watched a figure advance toward her through the headlights of a car that had pulled up behind her Cadillac. It was the figure of a man immersed in heavenly light.

“You’re an angel,” Liz said. “God sent me an angel.”

“No ma’am,” the man said. He cradled the back of Liz’s neck with one hand, and checked her pulse with the other. “John Manning’s the name. I’m an atheist.”

*          *          *

The Biblical parallel should be readily apparent, and all Christians should recognize the gravity of this modern day Good Samaritan story within the full weight of our modern setting. We’re all created in God’s image, after all…there are no exceptions. We ought to treat our fellow man accordingly–just as we would have them treat us–despite our difference in belief.

Garland Greene, Steve Buscemi’s psychotic character from Con Air, engages Cameron–put the bunny back in the box–Poe (Nicholas Cage) in some entertaining philosophic dialogue that I think is worth some consideration:

What if I told you insane was working fifty hours a week in some office for fifty years at the end of which they tell you to piss off; ending up in some retirement village hoping to die before suffering the indignity of trying to make it to the toilet on time? Wouldn’t you consider that to be insane?

Taken at face value, it’s great advice from a crazy man. Blind squirrels, after all, find acorns every now and then. It’s also representative of a notion frequently set forth by our new atheist counterparts. Frankly, it’s a corner piece of their argumentation, and one Christians have always preached: live this life in earnest.

The foundational aspects of our agreement with respect to living this life to the fullest are divergent, however. The new atheist urges us to live this life to the fullest because it’s the only one we have, or at least the only one we know of. Certainly, the sense of urgency is obvious. Or is it? It’s not at all clear to me that lotus-eating is not as reasonable a conclusion, drawn from a pool of several competing possibilities. Another option weighs heavily in the words of the pearl of the English language:

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

Macbeth A5, S5

If this life is the only one we have, then the force of these words is inescapable. I have great respect for the new atheists’ exhortation to be diligent in living this life. Moreover, I’ve been consistent in acknowledging that, on average, atheists in fact lead lives on a moral par with Christians.  In this regard, I wish more Christians emphasized more often the importance of this life. However, if this is it, if we will be heard no more after our hour upon the stage, what difference can it really make what we say and do while on stage? Though I impregnate meaningless with a temporal or existential meaning, I am still but an idiot, and my tale is full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. And if Christ be not raised, we are to be pitied above all men.

Garland had a point, if we restrict his assertion. Don’t give your life over to convention. Live it to its fullest. But considered in a world without ultimate meaning, Garland’s unrestricted assertion is horrifying:  There’s no substantial, non self-illusory difference between my life and yours. You worked your whole life, were dependable, disciplined, raised a good family, paid your taxes, were a good citizen, and helped little old ladies across the street. I, on the other hand, drove through three states wearing a little girl’s severed head as a hat. Guess what? We amount to the same thing, ultimately. Out! Out! Brief Candle…

A naturalist reality lacks the ability to ultimately distinguish between those who would molest little girls, and those who live decent lives, whether it’s fifty years in a cubicle or not. Live life to the fullest. Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die. Grin and bear it. Rail against the uncaring and insouciant heavens of matter and energy. In time, your cries will fade into nothingness along with all the earth’s TV and radio transmissions and all its Voyagers, in some unknown, deathly cold, and dark reach of space. After your hour upon the stage, your cries are heard no more. The world’s thanatopsis is deafening in its silence, and repugnant in its equality.

For the Christian, the ultimate, ghastly equation of serial killers and normal folk does not obtain, for there is a heavenly father who knows how to distinguish between the two, has the power to do so without interference, the holiness to do so righteously, and the omnipresence whereby no dark, remote corner of the universe remains untouched. Without doubt, Job cried out in the midst of his distress: I know that my redeemer lives, and that in the end he will stand upon the earth. And after my skin has been destroyed, yet in my flesh will I see God; I myself will see him with my own eyes–I and not another. How my heart yearns within me!

Christian: live every minute now to the fullest. We, of all people should, for we believe our actions have eternal consequences and meaning. How our hearts yearn within us, both for now, and for evermore.