Suddenly, I heard Kevin gasp. We stumbled blindly toward his voice until echolocation led us to a vine-covered mausoleum. The script was crumbling, but the names were unmistakable.
This childlike, seven-year-old-style “what if” that we Christians share on this paradigm-shifting day is bigger than a breezy optimism. This is a deep-rooted hope.
Sometimes, I grow tired of people pretending they do know. I grow tired of people claiming the time to kill, the time to give up, the time to throw away.
An emotional massacre is really what I wanted, leaving happiness as the only feeling left standing. It’s what made the most sense at the time, but it doesn’t anymore.
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.
Tina: Good evening, I’m Tina Fey…
Amy: …and I’m Amy Poehler.
Tina: Welcome everyone to the 26th annual Golden Gabe awards.
But I have not yet figured out how to be happy in a world that is torn apart every day by war and hate, by hunger and sickness, by itself. I’ve learned this semester that being a social worker necessarily means knowing that there is more fallenness in this world than we can bear.
Recently, my wife and I watched all six Star Wars movies in preparation for The Force Awakens—a feat I hadn’t done in years—and I remember my vaguely alarmed reaction during the credit-crawl for A New Hope.
Stanton has a massive platform, and he stands on it with poise and humility. In an online world that screeches with hostility and self-aggrandizement, Stanton is the most elusive and vital kind of storyteller.
After the first time we played, Christoph sent me this video of the Qatar Classic 2015 and said, “Whatever it was that we played last week, it wasn’t squash.”
