August 26th, 2013 – Wake up. Drive to the hospital. Get anesthetized. “Sleep” while doctors cut a surgically-implanted steel bar out of my chest.

August 26th, 2014 – Wake up. Enjoy a cup of Yorkshire Gold and the conversation of good friends around the breakfast table. Work 9 to 5 on a prospering internship.

God is good.

“People wonder why the novel is the most popular form of literature; people wonder why it is read more than books of science or books of metaphysics. The reason is very simple; it is merely that the novel is more true than they are. Life may sometimes legitimately appear as a book of science. Life may sometimes appear, and with a much greater legitimacy, as a book of metaphysics. But life is always a novel. Our existence may cease to be a song; it may cease even to be a beautiful lament. Our existence may not be an intelligible justice, or even a recognizable wrong. But our existence is still a story. In the fiery alphabet of every sunset is written, ‘to be continued in our next.’” – G.K. Chesterton

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