The world, our world is in need of grace. Thus, I share my thoughts about a friend who has lived a life of grace and is a man of grace. For now, we will call him M.

I used to think writing a book would be the hard part. Compared to finding a way to get it published, it was a breeze.

Until we learn to communicate with one another, we are all aliens to someone else. Among the great joys of this period of my life are my son Jacob and my annual trips to national parks. The time together and the shared discovery of places of wonder are so meaningful. We’ve traveled together to the Grand Canyon, Bryce Canyon, Zion Canyon, and Yellowstone National Park. We have several traditions when we take these trips. We stock up on gluten free bread, bananas and almond bu

This photo by Unknown Author is licensed under CC BY-SA-NC Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet … then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can Moby Dick I suppose I could describe these past months as being a sea. I left the grounded world of a full-time salaried job, with it

Dyslexia Written in 2012 – But still worthwhile. At least I think so. I turned 60 this year, a notable accomplishment marked by great family joy, personal self-reflection, and an accelerated schedule of colonoscopies. In the world of numbers, while 59 was a prime year—one that can only be divided by one and itself—60 lends itself to multiple divisions (30×2; 15×4; 5×12...). Thus, these past months have provided me with an opportunity to divide my years and look at my life in

There are regulars who walk and jog the Azalea Trail in the morning. A couple with a small beagle mix, the husband sporting a wide brimmed travel hat. A short, thin women, perhaps in her late seventies or early eighties always wearing a winter coat and carrying an umbrella. An attractive young Black woman with her playful toy poodle. There are archetypes. Asian and Latin American adults linking arms with their elderly parents ambling slowly along the wooden planked trail, ph

There was a certain existential dynamic when I dropped the jigsaw puzzle, undoing all the days of hard work searching for and linking neighboring pieces. It was a puzzle of Edvard Munch’s “The Scream.” As the pieces hit the floor and scattered, my horrified reaction seemed appropriate. Certainly, for the hours of effort now undone, but also for the sense that, given the puzzle’s image, I might have crossed some kind of matter-ending Rubicon, akin to bringing together matter