On the backside of my parents’ front door, hung a polished brass plaque, its edges worn smooth from years of hands brushing past, its...

That my very nature was an enemy to God. My nature— to observe the symmetry, to seek the unseen paths, to contemplate the quiet woven...

He carries the weight of wonder, collecting fragments of light— a glance, a laugh, the brush of a hand against his own. Each moment he...