By Anna Von Reitz
When I was very young I lived on an old-fashioned farm with a barn and a hay loft and a chicken coop and a pig pen and cows and horses and all sorts of critters. Then as now I had to figure things out, so I was constantly bothering my poor parents with oddball questions--- for example, "What do angels do when their wings molt?"
My Dad made a sound like he was stifling a sneeze. His eyes watered as he gazed up toward the ceiling of the hayloft. I thought it was the dust getting to him, but on later reflection, maybe not.
"They walk," he finally answered, sober as a judge.
Well, okay.... you can see what he was up against.