So I climbed into the darkness—exhausted, cold, and afraid. Eventually, just as promised, a solitary shack stood at the top of Poon Hill. I could see the warm glow of a fire piercing tiny gaps between the boards of the door. A few sparks rose out of the makeshift chimney.
I knocked, and the door opened. An old man answered with a smile as if he had been waiting for my arrival all day. “Namaste,” he greeted with a bow. “Namaste,” I replied with tears in my eyes.
-Furman Buchanan, Gifts of God for the People of God, Chapter 14