For the last several weeks, we have been taking a stroll through what it means to live rooted in grace when life throws difficult dialogue in our paths.

I have no favorite children, but I do have beloved words. Perhaps, apparently, generative, credulous, and meticulous are some of my favorites.

A solipsist is one who believes that theirs is the only real experience. All the other kids on the playground are fabricated by the solipsist’s mind to fill out the landscape.

The story of the beginning of the Hebrew people is two-fold. First there is a sweeping poem about vast spinning chaos called into verdant life, beginning, not with the production of day, but with the restful, tucked-in-ness of night.

Community is difficult. People hurt. Flying over the Continental US this summer, I thought about all the lives I was passing over.

I am sitting in an old auditorium. Stark white walls set the black-robed chairs in stark relief. The stage, which I am facing from a raised viewpoint in the back, is a darkened canvas, surrounded on three sides by a decorative frame.