“It was the devil made those,” Aunt Beulah’s eyebrows almost met above the bridge of her nose.
“They’re just a form of volcanic rock, cooled down in a specific way …” Jedidiah tried.
“By which you mean, the devil.”
Jedidiah sighed. There was no way to reason with his relative once her mind was set. Science would find its way to be in service of her beliefs, and any fact would somehow be turned into further proof of her conviction.
In some ways, he knew, he was no different, only that his spiritual experiences had more to do with being one with the rock, fingers holding on to crags, feet clinging to the surface, defying gravity, confronting his mortality.
“You go climb the devil’s work,” Aunt Beulah muttered. She’d raised him and saw herself in his stubbornness. “And I’ll be in the church praying for Jesus to keep you from dying.”