Writings
Yesterday morning, before retreating to do my writing, I did a little reading of the newspaper….that hybrid thing the News and Free Press pony up to print on Saturday. Imagine my surprise to discover that the three most interesting stories, relative to Mother’s Day, were deadly.
During one of those days in our marriage when we weren’t talking about anything specific or dramatic, Kris suddenly said: “With the exception of the years I spent at Michigan State, the question of where I went to church….or whether I went to church….has always been decided for me by somebody else. First, by my mother. Then, by you.” Not that she was complaining, mind you. Just observing.
There are some days when I survey the landscape of opinion and wonder if I believe anybody. And there are other days when I survey the landscape of opinion and find myself believing everybody. In part because, on some days, concerning some issues, it would seem as if everybody has a piece of the truth, but nobody has the entire truth. So I find myself swayed by the voice of the one who speaks loudest….or last.
When I was a kid (which some days feels like yesterday, but other days is beyond my ability to recall), I learned a version of a still-popular spiritual, the chorus of which went like this:
