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.
Sunday, January 27, 2013
The Process of Living
In all that fire and noise, the rushing of winds and being heard in foreign tongues the Church was born, but after a short time wonders and signs were over and the process of living began. It stopped being new and started becoming itself in the midst of a less excitable world and people maybe less in need of sparkle.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment