text: “When you find yourself clutched in the talons of a spiteful god, the way I see it you’ve got two choices. On the one hand, you could moan about it to anyone who’ll listen. And on the other hand, you can get on with your life. Now, look. Am I saying it’s right that our crops failed again this year due to the blood rains? Certainly. Our lord is as wise in delivering the blood rains as he is wrathful against those who question the blood rains. *Acceptance.* That’s the real lesson here. Picture a predator hunting its prey. The prey is caught and dragged to the ground, the predator’s jaws tightening. It spends its last moments kicking and screaming. This is the way of animals, the natural way of things. But we are *not* animals. We need to talk about Sally Mayfeeld, Ancel’s little girl. We all saw that she got swooped up by that huge serpent-headed bat. And I know we’ve all had time to reflect on what happened that morning. Sorry, Ancel. I know it was just a few days ago. But it needs to be said. Anways, Sally got swooped up. And did she make a spectacle of herself! All the kicking and screaming. Like an animal! Such a ruckus. It must have been most of the morning. I know because I was outside painting the church fence. Looks nice, doesn’t it? That bat got so darned tired, it dropped Sally right onto the grain mill and broke it. She died before that during the, erm, that is. I mean to say... during the eye gouging. Well, I don’t need to tell you. We were all standing around watching, waiting for it to finally be done with so we can get on with our morning. At one point, near the end, she clutched Mrs. Pelter’s coat, begging for help. As though Mrs. Pelter would defy the will of our great and terrible destroyer. I’m sorry you had to go through that, Mrs. Pelter. Ancel, I believe you owe Mrs. Pelter a new coat. Her old one is totally ruined with Sally’s blood. What’s that? Ah, yes. New shoes as well. I’m sure if Sally were here she’d apologize for ruining everyone’s morning. Since, that’s not possible... No, Ancel. Since that’s not possible, perhaps Ancel could bring some cakes next week. That would be nice. Ancel. Ancel, please sob more quietly. I’m can’t bring back to life every loved one ripped violently away from us. I’d never get anything done. And besides, without consequences, life has no meaning. Our blessed tormentor wouldn’t just murder and abduct the lifeless corpse of another of our children before our eyes unless it was meant to teach us *something.* And that something is acceptance. Some of you may think I’ve been too harsh on Sally. So, I’d like to conclude her memorial service with a reading from the *Third Book of Loath*: *‘Meaning cannot be found in this life or the next, least of all by someone as nonthreatening and forgettable as you. When your final heirs gasp their final breaths in some few, short generations, will your meaning be revealed?’* Thank you for attending the midnight memorial service for Sally Mayfeeld. I hope when you think back on her memory, you will remember to calculate the monetary value of the damage caused by her demise so we can properly hold Ancel accountable. The service is now over. The last 10 people to leave the building will submit to a brief yet painful blood draining.