I am an engineer and a philosopher and a poet and a husband, as if labels could tell you anything significant. I am in my century of ascent, my hundred years of solitude upon the face of the earth, and I am determined not to lock myself too tightly into any one path, lest the others suffer the neglect. The tree of life offers many fruits.
Of course, why do I write? Not to know that I am not alone, but more as an echo chamber to sound out the question which resounds within me: why do we so often limit ourselves? Forget that—more importantly, why do I so often limit myself? Why do I insist on death when the Lord offers me life? Now we start to get to the heart of the matter—these essays are self-admonitory, inviting me to make the leaps of faith I know I should (a problematic word!). My brain’s soil is reserved for the terrible questions—“for the earth which drinketh in the rain that cometh oft upon it, … bringeth forth herbs meet for them by whom it is dressed” (Heb. 6:7).
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