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.
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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.
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