On the fourth Sunday, after the sermon on "living waters," Sam snapped. He grabbed a shovel, a length of steel fishing tape, and a stubborn prayer. The downspout from the north gutter vanished into the earth beside the foundation. He knelt, peeled back the grate, and stuck his arm in up to the shoulder. Mud. Cold, packed, root-tangled mud.
He fed the fishing tape in. It went three feet, then stopped dead. He jiggled, pushed harder—nothing. So he dug. underground gutter drain pipe clogged
What came out was a history of neglect. A tennis ball, bleached white. A cascade of oak leaves, turned to black sludge. A nest of something—matted hair, twigs, the tiny bones of a shrew. And there, wedged like a cork in a wine bottle, a child's rubber duck, its beak chewed off by time. On the fourth Sunday, after the sermon on