I found myself in Little Rock, Arkansas, standing outside the Holiday Inn Presidential. They still were basking in the glow of President Clinton. Pictures of presidents lined one hallway. The hotel restaurant was called "Camp David," and I ordered a Clinton Club for dinner.
Outside the hotel, where I'd gone to lock up my car, I saw the hotel's shuttle van dropping off a group of pilots and flight attendants from the airport. I stopped the driver, after he'd gotten back into the van, and he rolled down his window. He had been counting his tip money, so he was smiling when he spoke to me.
I asked him my question and he barely hesitated, "Absolutely." But he said he was in too much of a hurry to be prayed for then, so I told him that I would pray for him later.
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