I read Reaching for the Invisible God by Philip Yancey ten or twelve years ago. I loved it. It was so helpful for me at a time when I was lost and searching, clamoring to make sense of losing the faith of my childhood, and dreadfully uncertain that I’d ever find another one in its place. I…
Several years ago it dawned on me that most all of my spiritual heroes are unabashedly ecumenical. Father Henri Nouwen, Brother Roger of Taize, Sister Joan Chittister, Father Richard Rohr, Thomas Merton, …
*Identities changed to protect those involved.
“Come on,” I said. “You want all of these good things for yourself. That doesn’t seem consistent with not going to school.”
“It’s not,” responded Rashid*, a handsome, African-American young man who was surprisingly engaged in counseling. “Some days I just didn’t have a choice.”
“You’ve always got a choice, man,” I said.
“No, like I really didn’t have a choice.”
My family and I are very much in a season of sojourn, and are strangers in a strange land. I arrived in Lynchburg, VA, in 1997, and have been here since with only brief periods of exodus. On one such period I met my wife, and we moved back here shortly thereafter. We have met many wonderful people here, and are grateful for their friendship and ways in which they’ve loved us.
On this Memorial Day, I found myself trying to make sense of death.
Every time I hear the laughs and babbles of my infant son, I am struck that the term “infant” is from the latin infans, which means, essentially, “incapable of speech.” Yet, with gurgles and coos and nehs and wahs very present, he has a language all his own, and I am enthralled. It was the same way after the birth of my daughter, who just…