Citizen Writers Fighting Censorship by Helping Americans Understand Issues Affecting the Republic.
There are hundreds of pilgrims. Very few speak English. We are all from different countries, age groups, and walks of life. And yet, somehow, although we are foreigners sojourning in a strange land, we all manage to—this is beautiful—gripe about how slow the line moves.
The modern obsession with happiness—comfort, entertainment, ease—is not only misguided, it’s harmful. It’s a form of “infantile hedonism”: a worldview more suitable for children than for adults who wish to live meaningful lives.
Life is chaos. Not metaphorically. Not symbolically. At its core, existence is one long, tangled mess of disorder, uncertainty, and entropy. From the spinning galaxies to the storms on Earth to the mess in your kitchen—chaos is the natural state of things.
I receive a lot of remarks in the form of emails, private messages, obscene hand gestures, etc. There’s no way I could answer all comments individually. So occasionally, I compile commonly asked questions and answer them in this column.
Today, my wife and I will become pilgrims. We will walk the breadth of Spain, upwards of 500 miles, over Pyrenees Mountains, on foot, to visit the remains of the apostle James.
My dog, Marigold, and I have been walking a lot lately. It’s not easy, walking. We have very few “good walks” inasmuch as walking in a straight line is impossible when you can’t see.
It’s overcast. I’m with my wife and my dog. We are on the wide porch of a vacation rental house. This is the main road which cuts through this small town. There are sounds of kids laughing, playing. Easy traffic.
Six years ago. The Waffle House was packed. There were customers everywhere. Shoulder to shoulder. Sardine-like. I don’t know how the waitress managed to find a place for us at the counter.
People from all over the world are traveling to this sacred place. Farmers and peasants. Lords and ladies. Rich and poor.
As a boy, I’d awake to find my mother already in the living room, snuggled beneath a lamp, where she’d been reading for hours. The cat in her lap would just stare at me with moral disapproval.
Today is a big deal.
If you don’t read any further, just keep repeating the above sentence in a loud, clear voice until it sinks in and your spouse begins to wonder whether you’re clinically insane.
Five years ago I was in Huntsville when the world shut down. Five years. Almost to the day. I’ll never forget it.
The young woman sits in my truck passenger seat. She is 19. Her hair is red. Scottish red. Luminously red. People always comment on her hair first.
I have here a letter from 19-year-old Erin, who lives in Bristol, Virginia.
“Dear Sean,” she begins, “I want to be happy, but I’m not…
“My family is stressing me out, big-time. Especially my mom.
One of the most beautiful short stories ever written, The Book of Ruth may be brief, but it has a powerful message.
My sister and I sit cross-legged on the front porch, playing cards. I am losing. Not that this matters.
We are really into the game right now, slapping cards on the porch floor.
Once upon a time there were three little ants. The ants had an unusual home. They lived atop an elephant. Long ago the ants’ mother had reasoned that an elephant would be a wise place to lay eggs to keep them from danger.
It was a big storm. The television showed weather updates. The radar looked like red-and-yellow vomit.
“Find shelter!” the weather guy kept saying. “There’s a tornado on the ground in Calera!”
Have you ever wondered what Jesus was thinking as he headed to Jerusalem for what would be His final Passover? He knew where he was going, he knew why he was going, and he knew what would happen. And because of you and me, He did it anyway.
Anna and her four young daughters were on a trip to England on the SS Ville du Havre. It was a French steamship. All iron. Built like a tank. Except, of course, tanks weren’t around yet. This was 1873.