Fly the W
If anyone in contemporary America can sympathize with the frustration of first-century Christians awaiting the imminent return of Christ, it’s we Cubs fans.
If anyone in contemporary America can sympathize with the frustration of first-century Christians awaiting the imminent return of Christ, it’s we Cubs fans.
I’ve never quite understood the call of the West, a siren song so strong that some will risk—and lose—their lives to follow it.
I took a train every morning in Budapest to a little café called Budapest Bagel: a bar and a bagel shop where I somehow received college credit to write short stories and read novels following a longstanding expatriate tradition.
We like Tony C. because he was good, but we love him because he could have been great. We love him for his potential. We love him because we can imagine what he could have been. 100 home runs by twenty-two? He could have been the best player who ever lived.
There were fifteen of us sitting on the floor, playing Mario Tennis on GameCube, like kids. He stormed in, all sideburns and mustache, and yelled at us like kids.
Growing up, I occasionally went with my dad to both the hospital and the mission. I saw the way in which he interacted with the patients of the hospital and the clients of the mission.
He suggests that imagination is the essential component of sympathy. To imagination, I would add faith, also—faith that what you feel is maybe not so different from what I feel.
I’m carrying around the symbol of someone’s desire to be with me the rest of his life. That’s awkward, especially since there’s no protocol for me reciprocating the gesture.
My own body felt like it was about to become a steamed bun. But I needed to stay long enough so that the older gentlemen in the room don’t think I was a silly wuss.
10. Irresistible Grace: When, understanding that you have done nothing to earn it, you take the last scoop of cheesy potatoes at the church potluck.