There is a Scripture in the Bible. As far as I know, it is not in all translations of the Bible. But this I know for certain: It is in the King James Version. When I was 10, perhaps 11, Daddy preached the Scripture from the rough-hewn pine pulpit in the tiny one-room mountain church we attended. For all these years, it has clung to me like a small clump of red mud clings to a pair of work boots.