I haven’t figured out the scientific logistics yet, but I am determined to never have a firstborn child.
Many of us still have the mind set that we can have Christ without carrying our cross.
When I was in grade school, I bit people. I did it because bigger kids poked, prodded, and teased me about being half their size.
“Slumdog Millionaire” is a film with heart – beating, straining, breaking heart. Wrong choices fill the plotline, but they are necessary for the audience to understand what it takes to live and thrive when the whole world is against you. What does it mean to really live?
I remember watching him cruise around on the riding mower. His head lay back with sunglasses napping on his nose, and his legs were outstretched over the engine. It was like he was riding a lawn chair instead of a John Deere.
A thick skin and deep lungs are two requirements to surviving life with a big, loud, Irish family.
Nathan Furumasu offers a poem in response to Dr. Christopher Mitchell’s lecture “The Poison of Subjectivism: C.S. Lewis on Conviction in a Convictionless Age,” presented at the Caulkins Lectureship last week.
My family and I lived in Australia for six years in the 70s. In that country, where they do speak English, one would think communicating would be a snap. Not so.
After a while, we learned some of the colloquialisms. But, at first, it was a battle not to appear stupid.
Must we constantly be in contact? In Ray Bradbury’s short story “The Murderer” from 1953, the protagonist “murders” all his talking appliances.
It was kind of embarrassing and weird. Walking through the Salem Center Mall looking for a formal for my wife felt like trying to get on the right car of an Italian train – the clothing terms seemed like a foreign language.