The nun, you said,
bad-marked your report card
because you could not
answer why why why
God made her or you
or them or me.
All jowls and rules,
that woman. As if
the motives of God
were true-false, multiple
choice or kindergarten simple.
”So why did he?
I knew you would ask
and seem to remember penning
the answer somewhere:
the inside of my left wrist,
the toe of my right sneaker
or was it the cardback
of my spiral noebook?
I cannot locate the eternal
plan just now, but I did know.
I really must have.
Just look across my office.
See in the corner of the cluttered, trivial desk
that miracle of smirk playing itslf our
on my daughter’s kindergarten face.
Dear Reader,
Can I be direct with you?
War abroad. Socialists on the rise. AI upending human life. Endless uproar online. The modern attention economy doesn’t want readers — it wants users enslaved to the tyranny of the present.
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But we can’t do it without readers like you.
Our goal: Raise $150,000 by November 1 to sustain First Things in the year ahead.
Your gift anchors readers in the permanent things.
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