It is a strange thing to be in a city of 8 million people and not know a single soul. It is stranger still when low clouds loom over the whole city and make its steel towers disappear into the fog. Those manmade canyons can make you feel so overwhelmingly small. Yet when you can't see the sky, it all feels claustrophobic in a bizarre kind of way.

I hopped a train to New York a couple of days ago. I went alone and didn't really know what I was going to do. But I felt like I should go. This great metropolis was only a ride on the rails away and I hadn't been there in 8 years. Why not? And I'm glad I went, but it was this disembodied experience because I felt small, because I was all alone.

It occurred to me at one point that something could happen to me and no one would know for awhile. Not that I was ever afraid that something would happen to me. But when you're alone in a place that big, you're a stranger on the train. A ghost. And with most subway commuters looking down at their phones or newspapers, with their eyes jutting every which way. It was like there was a fog between us all. I was a ghost to them. They were ghosts to me.

"You'll believe a man can fly."

That was the slogan when Christopher Reeve first donned the red cape for the 1978 film Superman. And when we think about the very first superhero--who celebrated his 80th birthday with yesterday's Action Comics #1000--it is his superpowers that immediately leap to mind. Faster than a speeding bullet. More powerful than a locomotive. Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound (back in 1938, the slogan actually would have been "You'll believe a man can jump really far and high").

Superman is a character that has been incredibly important to me for the vast majority of my life. I have a strong emotional connection to the character. And it's not about being strong or fast or even saving the day. Those things are cool and I doubt the adventures of a normal guy would have caught my childhood attention as well as those of the Man of Steel. But if there was a Superman slogan that was targeted specifically at me, it would be something different.

"You'll believe a man can be good."

Liam,
Right after bedtime is probably not the moment to write this to you. Bedtime can kind of be a war of attrition with you these days. Tonight, it took so much effort to get you to put on your pajama shirt. So much effort. You can be a super stubborn kid and there are contexts when that is amazing. It is going to serve you so well if you learn how to channel it. But the pajama shirt tonight...dude, I was already exhausted before that mess.

But here is the positive spin I'm going to put on that: I think the reason that you fight going to bed is because you enjoy being awake so much. You enjoy playing and being read to and eating and doing everything else a little boy your age does. You are so radiantly full of life. Even though this force of nature that you are tries to barrel through your mom and I sometimes, I am kind of in awe of it. You seem to go after each day like it's an adventure to be had. Witnessing that is a blessing to your nearly 30 years older dad.

I think I have spent the last 15 years trying to sing a song that I've only heard once or twice. The melody got stuck in my head on a service learning trip to Cuba.

I was 19 and had never left the country before. I had never experienced church outside of my overwhelmingly white Baptist denomination in South Carolina. I had never truly seen a body of believers stand in that gap of poverty on a consistent, week in and week out basis. I had never truly seen the work of the church spill into its community.

I have spent the last decade and a half grappling with that trip because I saw something beautiful in those churches that I had not quite seen before. Their practice and their passion melded in a way that seemed vibrant. They were hospitable. They pulled us into conga lines as we sang "Hallelujah" in a sanctuary full of joy. But they also prophetically spoke to us with concern about the war that our nation was about enter. They backed up what they preached with practice. They sought to bind the wounds of a drug-riddled community through gardens and baseball teams and dance troupes.

I went to a Predators game this past Monday with a friend from church. It was the first time I’d been to a Preds game since EA and I went to one back before we had kids. The thing that struck me a week ago—and I think this is the thing that stands out to a lot of first time visitors—was all of the unified chants that roared from the bleachers. It was ritual, with perfect timing thousands of people knew what to say and when to say it.

I’ll go ahead and get out in front of this: the fans tell opposing players that they—and this is the particular word—suck. They do this a lot. There’s no way around it. But these fans know all of these chants by heart. It’s an odd connection to make, but I told Erik that it reminded me of a liturgy at church. It was like people reciting the Lord’s Prayer or responding “Thanks be to God” after scripture is read.

Liturgy mean “the work of the people” and the chants, calls, and responses were definitely the work of these gold-clad people. Their aim was slightly different than what happens at church; they were trying to get in the heads of any Ottawa Senator they could. But it shared a common point with the movements of a church service.

I was curious where these chants came from. There weren’t any cues or guidance from the Jumbotron. No one was saying over the PA, “And now let us remind the opposing goalie of his ineptitude.” The roar emanated from the stands. It was grassroots.

Billy Graham passed away at the age of 99 this morning. Throughout the day, people have rightfully been lauding his impact on the world. He preached good news to millions of people and brought hope to individuals from all over the globe. He was not perfect nor would he claim to be. But his life is a testimony to the difference that an individual can make. Reflecting on his life has caused me to look on the past, but also to look towards the future.

In the wake of the tragic mass shooting at Parkland, I have been amazed at the courage and boldness of high school students who have spoken out. In a world in which many adults, including myself, have reluctantly resigned themselves to the perpetuation of this violent madness, these young women and men have drawn a line in the sand.

Today they have gone to the state capitol in Tallahassee to hold their representatives accountable. Students across the country are walking out of schools in solidarity. They are speaking with conviction in front of large crowds. I have not been able to tear my eyes away from Florida all afternoon.

The right words are sometimes difficult to find.

Last night was my second time on the other end of Ash Wednesday. I stood at the front of the sanctuary in my robe (I was also wearing a tie, which is a bit unusual seeing as if I had a dollar for everyone who mentioned the fact that I was dressed up, I could have taken EA to a nice Valentine's Day dinner) and administered ashes. And I found myself struggling with what to say as I made the sign of the cross on each individual's forehead.

The fretting is on me. These women and men weren't coming to hear whatever I said. They were here for the ashes. But I still didn't want to be pithy. I didn't want to water down this holy moment that has meant a great deal to me. I still remember Lisa Allen speaking to me one Wednesday many years ago and how her words were like oxygen to my spirit. It's not that I wanted to be grandly eloquent, but I wanted to minister. I'm probably too lost in my own head sometimes.

The right words are sometimes difficult to find until you realize they are right there in front of you.

It's gray and gloomy outside today because of course it is. Throughout the day, many of us will slide into a church pew and hear some variation on these words:

"You are dust and to dust you shall return."

There is harshness there. It's a slap of reality to the face and its hand is cold and brittle. We don't like to think of not being here. Our entire frame of reference is being alive. We may understand that death creeps around some unknown corner, but we don't really like to dwell on it. Well, poets might. Yet on the whole, humanity does not like being reminded of its finite nature.