WHILE I was leisurely reading my morning paper, Din Floro—my senior in IM, now a gastroenterology fellow—and Niño Lucero, the plastic surgeon who doubles as an Instagram rockstar, sat in front of me and joined me for breakfast. The music playing was John Mayer's "Love On The Weekend." Our morning chat was a pleasant surprise; but alas, duty called. It's admitting day today.
THE NIGHT before her flight, Nanay tells me she has low back pain. “Is it just my posture?” she asks at 11 PM. “It aches when I sleep wi...
THE website was down for a few days. My domain host failed to receive any notices from me that my renewal fee had been paid a day before dea...
If, theoretically, you had a gifted child—someone who could solve problems mentally, without pen and paper; who already knew calculus before...
This morning I overhead at the Schoenbrunn Palace, the Habsburg summer house, a family who looked brown and noisy and happy enough for me to...
TOUR guides always refer to Christianity as if it were something distant: something that needs mentioning, but not too much. Talk about anyt...
Nothing arouses playfulness like the first experience of snow. From Gare Paris Est, I took an 11-hour train journey to Vienna, crossing ...
“My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?”—Psalm 22:1 Were here behold the Savior in the depth of his sorrows. No other place so well sh...
NOTHING much happens in Tom McCarthy’s Satin Island . An anthropologist, who works in-house at a big commercial firm, writes about Claude Lé...
To the present hour we hunger and thirst, we are poorly dressed and buffeted and homeless, and we labor, working with our own hands. When r...
I've been blogging since 2004, and Tim Challies' article, " Nobody Respects A Blogger ," is a beautiful reminder of why I...
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