In This Issue
A quarter century with Sojourners
Henri Nouwen's journey home
IT WAS A WONDERFUL sunny Sunday
morning in June 1996. In high spirits our group left the Franciscan
monastery at Rama, in central Bosnia, to drive to the small mountain
village of Podhum.
I especially remember one
visit among many to Sojourners by Henri Nouwen.
The gift and struggle of Henri Nouwen's life
Columnists
I'm beginning
this column at about 30,000 feet, en route to Akron, Ohio. We're
doing the Who Speaks for God?
Death
sucks." Five years ago this was the opening of a eulogy by
a minister for a mutual friend who died tragically.
What
time-honored edible has all of the following: the warmth and comfort
of hot bread; the fragrance of a baking cake; the staying power
of potatoes and gravy; the beauty of a painting in cream
A recent survey, taken in a school for upper-middle-class American children, surfaced a startling statistic.
Table of Contents
Cover Story
Features
IT WAS A WONDERFUL sunny Sunday
morning in June 1996. In high spirits our group left the Franciscan
monastery at Rama, in central Bosnia, to drive to the small mountain
village of Podhum.
I especially remember one
visit among many to Sojourners by Henri Nouwen.
It's 4:20 p.m.
I'm standing over the Olympic soccer stadium in Sarajevo. From
one goal post to the other are graves-headstones of various sizes
and shapes, most unmarked.
Commentary
Columns
I'm beginning
this column at about 30,000 feet, en route to Akron, Ohio. We're
doing the Who Speaks for God?
Death
sucks." Five years ago this was the opening of a eulogy by
a minister for a mutual friend who died tragically.
What
time-honored edible has all of the following: the warmth and comfort
of hot bread; the fragrance of a baking cake; the staying power
of potatoes and gravy; the beauty of a painting in cream
A recent survey, taken in a school for upper-middle-class American children, surfaced a startling statistic.
Culture Watch
Departments
When
a beloved person dies abruptly, first the bad news flies, short
and rending.
Tonight
window-ledged
one fragile-winged flame
flutters toward a world moth-hungry for light.
Baby don't cry:
we'll be mother & father &
day after day
we'll have bread & meat & milk &
oranges & sing songs to
sleep & wake up, you'll see;
Inspiring the faithful to be the "moral locomotive for social change."
Tibetan Aid Project. Manufacturing Consent. Against Forgetting.
When a beloved person dies abruptly, first the bad news flies, short and rending.
