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.
Monday, March 18, 2013
In Church
We seem so often in Church because of obligation, a sense we should be here; but it competes with the realization we come lest we lose touch with what we would like to believe, a feeling that should we stop coming for any length of time we might not come again. It has less to do with celebration than fear.
Labels:
celebration,
Church,
fear
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