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.
Friday, October 25, 2013
Faith But No Joy
She was belting out the hymns and proclaiming those responses as though their being heard was a personal responsibility. At the sign of peace, I thought her eyes would jump right out with all the intensity of sincerity they were intended to convey. In between she criticized her child, and for all the noise and despite the mask there seemed no joy in her celebration.
Labels:
Church,
faith,
joy,
parenting,
zealousness
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