In Lydia Millet’s book, we enter into a stultifying scene, in which multiple families have taken their children away for the summer to vacation in an unnamed coastal town.
Because writing, I reminded myself, is never really about my story primarily. It’s about the intersection of lives.
When we worship, we tell God’s story back to Him. We sing and declare praises of who God is and what He has done.
On a daily basis, I am reminded of the world’s depravity as I am inserted into our community’s darkest places. I am also a witness to its restoration.
A recent study found that children raised in religious homes are actually somewhat less altruistic and have more punitive tendencies than others without a strong influence of religion in the home. Is this accurate?
The kinds of stories we tell about ourselves matter, and the story patterns that control and direct our lives are powerful forces.