I coach him through the formalities of a job interview. “Why should I hire you?” I feed him. “I am a good worker,” he sounds out. He is nervous. He rubs his neck. I can’t take my eyes away. I can’t stop thinking someone tried to kill you.
I literally wrapped my arms around my fridge the other week after it made a sound I would describe as a “death rattle” and begged it to hold on until I could either save up enough money to fix it, or find a full-time job.
I am not thankful for lice. And I never will be. But I am thankful for men. For a certain man in particular. You will see why.
This year’s paprikash dinner was Shakespearean—brutal in its unintentional comedy and not without its tragedy.
It was a most unusual Thanksgiving. En route to the Cape, we received rock-climbing advice from a naked, seventy-year-old fisherman, who helped us navigate the ragged crags leading up to the point.
But gratitude isn’t meant to be reserved for one day—and certainly not a panic-filled moment after Thanksgiving dinner. Because the day before Thanksgiving is where we spend our lives. Let’s live today with tomorrow in mind.
This was a truly significant moment in my life, and there is a reason that I still remember Chris’s grinning, red-rouged cheeks and Haley’s big, brown dismayed eyes beneath her adorable nineties bob. It was the first moment in my life where the right thing to do was also wrong.
“You could argue that,” my professor responded, “but where’s the line between saying something hateful, and saying something offensive? I think that line exists, but you have to define it.”
Weep for the world. Weep for the broken hearted, the half hearted, the heartless and the two hearted murderers. Weep for liberty. Weep for fraternity. Weep for the encyclopedia of troubled souls.
As I opened my mouth, I realized I was about to put words to a trend I’d been observing in my faith life but that until this point had dozed cozily in my subconscious: “I don’t care as much as I used to, and I’m kind of fine with it.”
