In 1968 I dropped out of college to become a bum. We called ourselves hippies, but we were really just tramps and hobos. I dodged the draft for a while, served in the army for a while, and traveled with the transients for a while. Life turned very old and unbearable. I found myself locked in a desperate search for Reality. One weird character in the French Quarter looked at me suspiciously, "You're not a hippie," he said. "Your shirt's too clean." He was probably right. I was a God-seeker. From nightmare to nightmare I groped to find my way, until at last I was confronted -- not by an experiment with some new high, or some far-out religion - but by Jesus Christ Himself. And it was in that personal encounter that I discovered the reason for living.
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