To Americans, the name Jesus is reserved to the Lord. This is not so in Spanish speaking countries where it is freely given to others as well, but true to my background I sometimes found it odd. One day, I was looking for Gomez and when I knocked a voice from behind the door asked who I wanted to see. I replied, "Is Jesus there?"
In more than one sense, the answer was obvious. Of course he was, and if Gomez was not there the other certainly was. He was in that house and every other. He is behind every door and in every street. Sometimes he is hard to find, but he is there. When he is harder to find, it may mean we should look harder and be more willing to recognize him as he shows who he is.
My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
Saturday, June 23, 2012
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