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notebook or a red one and a weird looking man, who couldn't possibly know your business, approaches you and tells you that God says take the green covered notebook, what then? Easy. Nothing! Zero. It does not rise to celestial importance. By the way, before we forget, lock him up, too. Good. There are more nuts around.. mmm.. but just in case, the green one, please. Thank, you. So how do you know a sign? What does it take? If you set the bar too high do you offend God? Who has the knowing-a-miracle rule book? Law? Whose? Ask? Our questions to God bring silence. What's the point? The point is that they are questions to ourselves! We answer. The answers are all there already. God doesn't need to answer. But, if He did, if God did answer, how would we know? What is a sign, anyway? Do we read into the shape of every spilled drink, every perceived face in the clouds? Or if that tramp wandered up and said I am God, heed me, do we heed? How far do we go with caution or disbelief. When does a skeptic kneel? It isn’t about what to believe, but when. How do you know revelation when it kicks you right in the ass? Is there a blur between the merely very weird and the supernatural? Maybe it is in the connection, the relevance, to who we are. The specificity. Hard to say. But, nevertheless in the darkest moment of Louis Prio's despair, Rose, his daughter brought home a bright young clean engineering student and blurted this request, Daddy, I want to marry him. It wasn't just a well timed chance at renewal that so thoroughly bonded such a powerful man immediately to this unexpected youngster. Rose's choice was not only the same age as Frank, he was named Frank, and he was a ringer for Louis's dead son, even the voice. Does it take a hammer between the eyes? A second chance! God was holding out this celestial bouquet of similarities as an offering for redemption. That had to be it. But, Son of God, this Frank had a price. This