Quiet Readings

“I can't find it!

I know it's here somewhere!”

I was at my sister's home after a nineteen-hour drive. It had been eleven years since we had last visited her family. We spent our time talking, taking a few tourist trips, and helping her hang new kitchen cabinet doors.

My wife and I are travelling next week to visit my sister and her family. I thought it would be nice to bring her some freshly roasted coffee beans.

My wife and I made a screen for our door window. When the window is open, it leaves a huge gap for flies and mosquitoes to come in. I’m sure they appreciate it. Us, not so much.

This morning, a good friend wrote about the ministry of providing showers to people experiencing homelessness.

I was at a restaurant the other day, one familiar to me. We were there celebrating a grandson’s birthday. I had not sat in that part of the restaurant for more than twenty years.

I awoke feeling as if I had wrestled a bear.

That is clearly an exaggeration, but I was sore all over. And it was not just this morning. It has been several days now.

It was no ordinary trip to a baseball game. What made it so was not just the game itself, but the reason for going—a family reunion at the ballpark.

What is happening to our attention—and what kind of presence is still possible—in a world that is constantly pulling us away from ourselves?

I gave a talk on presence yesterday.

Since returning home, I have found myself wondering what, if anything, really happened. 

Not only for those who were there, but for me.

It was the last leg of my trip, and I was ready to get home. Something happened as I was getting off the plane.

I’ve been spending time with the word “presence,” trying to understand its place in a world where distraction has become part of everyday life.

A breakfast with a good friend is never a disappointment, even when the conversation turns to shop talk—or, in this case, the pros and cons of AI.