Hopewit

Michelangelo's Pieta I was born on December 14, 1941; 25 days later, on January 8, 1942, a baby was born to the Hawking family in Oxford England. His parents named him Stephen. In 1962, I launched my career as a green, 20 year old teacher in a rural school in Saskatchewan; before my first year was up, Stephen Hawking—then in PhD studies at Oxford—would begin to fall down for no apparent reason. He was diagnosed with Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis. ALS. The dreaded Lou Gehrig's Disease that robs muscles of potency and renders its victims totally helpless.  There is no known prevention or cure for ALS. Even as his physical condition worsened, Hawking continued his studies, probably taking refuge in the burgeoning of his mind as his body continued the inevitable decay called ALS. His amazing thesis on black holes launched him as a scientific leader who, despite the odds, would advance the study of cosmology forward by leaps. It’s astounding to think that

St. Julians Lilac blossoms are back in town. I know a number of people for whom rid ing in a car when someone else is driving is cause for nervous, apprehensive stress. I empathize with them; I ride in airplanes (which I avoid whenever possible) in an adrenalin-fed, tense state. The immediate, simple explanation is that we have vicariously lived the horror of physical death in reports of crashes, and when we’re passengers—which by definition leaves us with no control over the situation—our unease is heightened. “And the Lord, he it is that doth go before thee; he will be with thee, he will not fail thee, neither forsake thee: fear not, neither be dismayed.” ( Deuteronomy 31:8 ; Moses encouraging Joshua to enter the promised land boldly. KJV) Every soldier going into combat must fear physical death; how could it be otherwise when the possibility—in some situations, the probability —of being torn to pieces by bullets, shrapnel, explosions must have been imagine

Eigenheim Mennonite Church - Youth Farm Bible Camp Chapel Friends: I'm working on developing a set of short stories/parables about the church as I've found it and as it might come to be. I've decided to share a draft of one and invite you to be an editor, tell me if it works or not, if you've spotted inconsistencies, faults in tense, word choice, etc. Append your comments to the post or copy and paste my email address and send to me privately. g.epp@accesscomm.ca. Thanks. (Note: Ike is a young pastor of a rural Mennonite Church, his wife works in a nursing home in the city. Characters and situations are invented and are not based on any person or event.)   Legend has it that the walking path along the bank of the South Saskatchewan was once an Indian trail, shared by them with periodic animal migrations. You take a left turn just before the bridge and onto a rutted, sandy set of tracks leading down to a flat where young people—Ike’s been told in coffee row