I STEPPED INTO THE COOL, humid October night. The air was frosty and breath condensed like exhaled smoke. It was one of those nights when car defrosters labor to keep condensation off the glass. Eight children clamored into my car, and I led a six-car procession of church members away from the Hillsboro skating rink and down the highway toward Penelope—population: 226—and the small country church I pastored during my college years. Three or four blocks later, I noticed dimly flashing lights through my fogged-over rear windshield.

Instinctively I checked the speedometer. "I'm not speeding; what could be wrong?" The entire procession pulled over with me and waited while the police officer approached my car. I got out and innocently asked, "What's wrong, officer?"

"Didn't you see that stop sign?"

"Stop sign? What stop sign?" I looked back into the gloom. There it was. "I'm sorry; I didn't see it."

"Maybe the reason you didn't see it was because you were driving with your lights off."

"Driving ...