When my brother committed suicide at age 25, I grieved for a week before returning to my classroom. To the eagerness of getting on with it. The faces of my high school students were sympathetic, and I tried sketching faint details of my loss without the public horror of confessing what had really happened. This is often what suicide does—leave whispers in the wake of its failed explanations. Continue Reading
As I hope you know, Ryan and I are active members at Grace Toronto Church, which is a source of joy for us. Every church is imperfect, of course, but in four short years, Grace has profoundly shaped who we are as followers of Christ. I am so grateful for our pastors and staff members, and I’m also privileged to know many, many gifted women in my congregation.
I am curating stories for a blog project called, “Found Wanting.” (If you’d like to submit a guest post, learn more here.)
During Jesus’ earthly ministry, it was not uncommon for him to approach the sick and sin-sick with this question: “What do you want?” In John 5, he speaks with a man lying next to the healing waters of Bethesda, a man who has been an invalid for 38 years.
“When Jesus saw him lying there and knew that he had already been there a long time, he said to him, ‘Do you want to be healed?’”
In the beginning.
These are the first three words of Scripture, and they burst with promise.
If Moses was indeed the author of the Pentateuch (the first five books of the Bible), perhaps he began here – in the beginning – as if to insist:
The story I’m about to tell you is headed somewhere. It has meaning and purpose. There is congruence to its parts.
In the beginning, at least as I read it, seems to say something inherent about the narrative architecture of God’s story. As a student of literature, I recognize in the beginning as a familiar point of departure: I head into the rising action. I anticipate conflict, then climax, and imagine myself making descent into the dénouement. Falling, falling, falling, I will fall into resolution.