I arrived in the Benj by accident, and yet it has been maybe the thing I’ve missed most about moving away from Grand Rapids.
Despite the pictures we got in Sunday School, God is not some old white dude with a giant beard.
The South American gem grinned when I responded to her beautifully-accented English in Spanish, and spoke again, “Digame si no me entiende. ¿Ok?”
I stepped forward, asking, “Llamas are the ones that spit, right?”
Critique matters because it sharpens our sense of beauty.
If the cost of spreading love is occasionally getting taken advantage of, I’m okay with that.
I suspect that we sometimes use the language of blessing as a neat way to sidestep the questions those things raise.
It was actually kind of a snap decision, I remember, that we would leave our DSLR cameras behind.
The most harrowing allusion in the painting is unavoidable—the train tracks.
Herb has long since retired. Where his barber pole once hung there’s now an upscale Vietnamese joint that does light lunches and dinners.