My son’s death did not evoke in me an interest in the problem of suffering.
We turned an empty lot in L.A. into an edible sanctuary.
As Père Diegue surveyed the unfinished classroom, he remarked: “I’m beginning to understand why I am here.”
For some reason, I couldn’t find the holy in the holy rocks everyone else was venerating.
Each winter, my family goes to our orchard to carry out an ancient tradition.
At first I resented the costly repairs. Then I took a closer look.
The new givers are great. Their comments about why they give are even better.
I want others to know the power of the gospel the same way she does.
The people come, bringing something of themselves. Then they leave.
Peterson never delivered a formula for success. He just wrote about pastoral work and how to live it.
What does it do to the body and spirit to be preyed upon constantly?
I liked this, until I didn’t.
Someone else should have a turn feeling guilty about not reading Finnegans Wake.
“The history of a church,” one member wrote in an old scrapbook I found, is “an unfolding pageant of life.”
I love the Del Parson Jesus. But it's the Monkey Jesus I need now.