This year the Solemn Reproaches are speaking to me in a new way.
Loneliness is a public health crisis, too.
My spiritual practices have long been communal ones. I love people—and their presence.
It makes me uncomfortable. That’s by design.
They’re in a plastic bag in my closet.
We gave our readers a one-word writing prompt: “Feet.”
Hope smells like barbecue.
Each year a Hindu priest asks my students to “worship our own, but respect all.” They find the second part easier.
How human isolation from the rest of the world keeps us from thriving.
The virtue of kindness depends on who we see as kin.
We say these words a lot. Lately I’ve noticed what it looks like when we follow through.
I preached a word of judgment. The stranger in the back row heard grace.
It’s hard to quit the college admissions game.
I knew Sunday worship wasn’t viable. But what about weekdays?
I was outraged. I wanted to burn it all down. I wanted to pray.