Monthly Archives: January 2014
Bill Nye worries that students won’t believe in Science because they’re too distracted by God, and Ken Ham worries that students won’t believe in God because they’re too distracted by Science.
After sending something into the world, after selling a couple dozen copies, I know that writing may be an individual act, but it isn’t a solitary one. It requires some very good company.
The series never forgets all the hard work it takes to achieve the freedom that Adolescence of Utena celebrates, and painstakingly details the progressions it takes to achieve liberation.
The potential deposit return on the cascade of empty soda bottles spilling out of the front hall closet is likely sufficient to pay my wife’s bus fare for the next three semesters.
It is impossible to come back from that trip and not feel encouraged by what we saw and heard and encountered: a people standing upright and resolute, and new life filling the cracks.
And this is a little bit comforting, but mostly annoying. Because what if God doesn’t intend for you to head toward that promotion, wasn’t planning on sticking to your timetables?
So you can imagine my confusion when boys neglected to be dazzled by my still un-shaved armpits and my attempts to engage them in witty repartee by repeatedly quoting Muppet Treasure Island.
Before one of our visits, she announced that while we were there, she wanted to have a List Party. With a cake. As soon as she said list party, the idea grew legs. Wings. We all said, Absolutely yes.
Part of the tension around New Year resolutions, I’ve realized, is suggested by the paradoxes of the meaning and etymology of the word resolution itself.
I have dabbled in piano, even learning two songs by memory just to have a few to play in case I’m zapped back to the nineteenth century and have to play piano in the equivalent of a Jane Austen novel.
I always figured that if I had something I legitimately wanted to change, I would certainly not make a NYR regarding it, because that would be pre-determining failure for the thing I actually cared about.
My favorite picture in the whole world: my maternal grandparents in their Sunday best, walking down a street. It’s a black-and-white picture, and to this day, I’m not entirely sure how they had it taken.
I thought it was bad my first day in the department when a woman came in, lifted up her shirt, and said “I like this bra. Can you find me another one?”
It’s Tuesday evening at the Southeast YMCA, and my squats are getting shallower. Cindi, the weight-training instructor, wanders through the crowded room, counting reps, shouting encouragement.
I can bike down each of Vienna’s alleys. I can scrape my elbow on any number of her streets. Still, the city will never be completely mine.
Every year, the Romans made promises to the god, Janus (hence January), who was often depicted as two-faced: one facing front and one facing back.
I wrote a piece earlier called “Mere Atheism,” and if you read between the lines of the opening paragraphs, you will find lurking within them an ugly fear—the mystery of why I am faithful was pinpointed on my family rather than the Holy Spirit; the mystical nature of...
I decided to be an astronomer at age ten. I am an astronomer now because God is gracious and I am stubborn. It is because of the former, and in spite of the latter, that I am also a Calvin alum.
The chord sounds a little different—less jaded and sweeter but less sappy—and I’m really glad. Glad to know I’ve changed and glad that a book has changed with me.
I don’t like resolutions because they are either so small as to be accomplished in a couple months or so general as to be forgotten within the same amount of time.
I gunned it up what looked to me like an incline about as threatening as what you might find on, say, the eighth hole of a miniature golf course, though it may as well have been a mountainside.
While I was home we hosted gatherings, which means we cleaned. As it turns out, my mom’s idea of clean and my idea of clean are not the same, and have not been the same for some time.
My roommate wears a retainer as well, and this is comforting as it lessens the embarrassment of the dreaded “retainer lisp.”
My resolutions are bricoleur. They are messy and vibrant and ambitious and mundane. It is a dirty, wrinkled list held together with Scotch tape, because this is the time for it.
So, in one sense, I broke my New Year’s resolution before I even made it to February. But I still did a lot. So if that’s failing, I’ll be happy to fail again this year.
On the bench, cradling the bottle, he folds over on himself and sits with the permanence of a doll on the top shelf of a woman’s girlhood closet. From the window above, the guard calls the dispatcher.
Yet, during the past three years, it had been always winter and never Christmas for Jeanne and her family: they didn’t see the point, nor could they muster the strength to celebrate without wife and mother.
December 31 certainly seems more festive than January 1. And by January 2, life resumes its normal course. Folks return to work, winter break ends, the Christmas tree comes down. Poor, poor January 2.
Begin a conversation with Person 2 about New Year’s Resolutions. (Optional: Person 2 snorts quietly.) Persist in having the conversation.