He placed his frail hands on the Bible; King James. The right hand trembled, fingers tapped on red leather.

Grasping the holy book, he held it to the sky. Did you write this? he asked God. Are these your words? nobody answered. 

I didn’t think so, he told the almighty. These stories, tales, are written by man. And was Jesus your son? again, no answer.

This book has been read by millions. Maybe billions. Some believe in it while others are skeptics, he said in a hushed tone. 

And what are you? a voice inside asked the old man. What are you?

Not sure. I’ve never been sure. Even when I was baptized, I wasn’t sure. Moby Dick? I believe in Melville. Ulysses? I believe in Joyce. But this? he threw the book down on the ground. This I do not know. It’s as if it were a secret. Some are in on it while others just live their lives in mystery.  Why don’t you tell me.

That’s up to you, the voice said.

Yes. Yes, it is. We all have a choice. A free will. To live in the dark or to let in light, he shook his head. I choose the gray.