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Archive for the ‘rrythmia’ Category

In some circles, to arrive at the office without having read the Wall Street Journal is like turning up in your boxer shorts and a sneaker. In other circles, the same can be said of CT, as it is known to regular readers, who include virtually everyone of influence in the evangelical movement in America. (more…)

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Shame on you, Pimsleur, for making us wait more than five years for the successor to this unparalleled introduction to Modern Hebrew. (more…)

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While finishing up a PhD at Cambridge and preparing to move back to my country of origin, one of the small but solid griefs of that process was saying goodbye to the familiar Oxford English Dictionary, whose massive volumes lay 13 steps to the right of my desk in Cambridge’s Tyndale House Library. In the three and a half years before that parting, I must have worn a rut in the carpeting during my frequent and satisfying sallies to the OED for help, rescue, and—occasionally—delightful surprise. (more…)

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A perfect chaos absorbs the street of Cairo, the most splendid disregard for safe conduct that the mind can imagine.

It is as though millennia of human experience in self-preservation have been sucked out of the atmosphere, leaving men and women to fling themselves moth-like into the lamp, banging time and time against glass, seeking out with obsessive will the consuming flame, loving ten times more the wick than the placid darkness where a moth might fly all night long to its heart’s content. (more…)

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    Concepción pastors a Pentecostal church down on the hot Pacific coast. The serious eyes behind his horn-rimmed glasses and his solid frame—somewhere on the way to portly without actually getting there—contrast with his name, which sounds like it ought to belong to a Venezuelan shortstop. His ‘to-do’ list includes looking after the denomination to which his church belongs. By the time you factor in his family—he once brought his eldest son to meet his prof—Octavio is not a man with a lot of free time. (more…)

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‘That’s monte’, the local Costa Rican grass guy says in answer to the offering my wife gingerly holds before his expert eye. ‘You’ve got to get rid of all of that.’ (more…)

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The time on my watch is two hours behind Charlotte’s languid late-morning minute hand. It’s ‘Going Home Day’, that passage of my journeys which begins far from the hearth, often with colleagues and friends, occasionally in the faux hominess of a hotel room, and ends—finally, it ends—amid familiar smells, domestic jokes, wagging tails, and loving arms. (more…)

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