Essays

I knew what it was instantly. Even shrouded beneath a bedsheet, the shape was undisguisable.

It dawned on me that I have neglected words. I’ve treated them as a means to an end, nothing more. That realization is just one of the lessons Henry led me to. Reading with a child, I’ve discovered, is a continual learning experience for everyone involved.

Long before the evangelical and Pentecostal Christians of my childhood held tent revivals, my forebears built booths and tabernacles in the desert, sides open to Ruach ha-olam, Breath of the Universe that animates and sustains us, that blows life into adamah and all the creatures on Earth.

This spring, I returned to Paris for the first time — with almost two decades of marriage, three kids, a freshly minted technical college diploma, and a new career in construction under my belt. The city looked very different.

My unread books had all survived several cullings, which meant that I must have repeatedly decided they were worth reading. So it seemed time to do just that.