Sharing the Data

If getting there is half the fun, I ought to have quite a bit more joy left in my exploration of ‘How will we live tomorrow?’ Since completing the ‘data gathering’ phase of my adventure in December, and stowing my bike, Tom, in the basement for the long, cold New England winter, I’ve been figuring out how to share my experience with others. Since I often wonder if I’m the only American who emerged from the past two years with positive energy for a nation bent on divisiveness, I want to do my part in fostering balance and tolerance, maybe even acceptance and respect. I found plenty of it on my journey, and I want to spread it around.

Asking for something is not a sign of weakness, it is an invitation to connect. And so I am asking all of you to help me share ‘How will we live tomorrow?’ as it evolves from conversations in specific places to discussions that span time. To tell the stories of the folks I met on my bike to people who did not have that opportunity.

Here’s what’s brewing:

Speaking Engagements: I have delivered keynote addresses to conferences focused on sustainability, emergency protection, and healthcare. Upcoming talks will focus on water and technology. Do you know an organization that would like to hear a uniquely formed perspective on where we are going?

Performance: Somewhere in Alabama – a state I visited three separate times on my crazy route – I realized that a journey about conversation needed to be performed rather than read. This inspired me to write a two-act play that can be performed as a one-person or varied-cast show, complete with original songs, familiar standards, a dramatic accident at the end of Act One and levitation in Act Two. Angels in America channels Leonard Cohen on his way to The Wild Party. I’m hoping to find an innovative theater group or fellowship seeking to collaborate on this new and innovative theater piece.

The Book. At least once a week while I cycled, someone asked me about the book I was writing, as if the pen were the logical extension of the pedal. Riding the rails north from Jacksonville after my cycling was done, I could not envision how to cohere my anecdotal journey. The play required I boil a half million words worth of blog posts down to under 20,000. During that process, I discovered a narrative arc that makes sense, a hybrid of chronology and evolving themes. I have a 70,000-word manuscript ready to share with agents or publishers, though I may decide to simply put it out there myself.

Other Shares. I am also preparing a submission to The Moth, and a TED Talk and will consider submitting to any other forms of group sharing that people might suggest.

One thing remains consistent. While I enjoy writing and reliving my journey by shaping stories and images to various formats, I’m less savvy at promoting and placing my stuff. So, anyone out there who knows a hungry marketing-type or agent who wants to raise the visibility of tomorrow; please let me know.

Future of this blog. was created to document this particular project. I will add posts directly related to speaking engagements, the play, the book, and any other sharing formats. However, I will not be adding new original writing to this blog. If you would like to continue reading my essays on yoga, Haiti, architecture, and this wacky place we call the United States, please follow my personal blog,, which contains over 800 essays from the past six years and will contain any new essays. As always, will contain up-to-date schedules on all of my endeavors.

Thank you for coming along on the ride.

How will we live tomorrow? Asking questions, sharing, and caring for one another.

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Profile Response: Paul E. Fallon, Cambridge MA


HWWLT Logo on yellow“Riding your bicycle fifty miles a day is not difficult. The trick is to do it every day. Discipline and organization are the only real skills I have.” Paul Fallon got on his bicycle in May of 2015 with the objective of pedaling through the 48 contiguous states, asking people he met along the way, ‘How will we live tomorrow?’ He took one planned break over the winter holidays, an unplanned one to heal from an accident, and completed his journey in December 2016. He pedaled 20,733 miles, stayed with 269 different host families over 397 days, profiled 436 individuals and organizations, and documented over a thousand other responses to his question.

screen-shot-2016-12-29-at-8-27-36-am“Every day I got to do three things I love: ride my bike, meet new people, and write.” The three activities nurtured each other. Paul meditated on his conversations while he rode, which shaped his writing. “By the time I arrived at a new place, I was refreshed to meet new people.”

Prior to bicycling all over the place, Paul was a healthcare architect. He volunteered to design a clinic in Haiti in 2007, an endeavor that, after the 2010 earthquake there, consumed more of his time and energy. By 2013 he had designed and supervised construction of two earthquake resistant buildings in Grand Goave. The following year, Architecture by Moonlight chronicled his projects as well as his evolving views on philanthropy and development. “Everything you hear about Haiti is true, but it is only part of the story. Haiti is culturally and socially rich in ways that our country is impoverished – no one there believes they can make it on their own. But Americans are not particularly reflective; we don’t think we have anything to learn from others.”

screen-shot-2016-12-29-at-8-35-22-amPaul decided to explore his own country in a visceral way, traveling slow, asking a question that has no correct answer. “Everyone I met was equally expert on the subject of tomorrow.” He ducked responding to his own question, “I didn’t want people to think my insight was any more valuable.” But now that the journey is over, he can’t put it off any more.

During his adventure, Paul saw little wildlife. “I never saw a deer, a big horned sheep, or even a moose.” However, he observed a fantastic array of birds. “A bald eagle swooped down on me in New York State. Three condors glided on thermals along Big Sur. I know that was rare, so I verified it.”


What entranced him time and again were the ordinary black birds, lined up near landfills, pastures and processing plants. They framed his response to his own question, with a little help from Leonard Cohen.


How will we live tomorrow?

screen-shot-2016-12-29-at-8-26-04-am“We will live like birds on a wire, tethered to the technology that holds us above and apart from the rest of our world. We will balance our tenuous perch scanning a horizon that appears ours alone, despite sitting shoulder to shoulder with our brothers.

“Thermal delights will lift us in joyous dance. Harsh winds will drive us to sheltering roots. We will move in concert with one another, some leading, others lagging, clumped tight, more afraid than we ever admit.

“When the sun returns and the breeze grows calm we will return to our wire. Precarious balance is the price of dominion. We will stare out on the vast expense and imagine that we are free.”


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Profile Response: Evan Wilhelm and Conor McBride, Wakulla FL

HWWLT Logo on yellowThis is the final of four posts profiling Floridians affected by restorative justice.

Correctional Institutions in the state of Florida are named after their locale, however ironic. Evan Wilhelm began his twenty-year sentence for manslaughter at Century. Conor McBride was incarcerated Liberty. Both Evan and Conor applied to the faith and character-based prison at Wakulla and each got transferred there. Wakulla offers many programs and perks in exchange for high behavioral expectations. Any infraction will result in transfer. However, random transfers are also inevitable: Florida Corrections’ routinely reassigns inmates to minimize gang influence. Evan and Conor could be whisked away at any time, and they know that any other prison will be less amenable than their current placement.

wakullaThe two young men do everything they can to inculcate themselves into Wakulla. They each attend programs and are working toward online degrees. Conor has become a certified law clerk and teaches classes on ‘victim rights’ to fellow inmates. When Wakulla’s library needed a clerk, he was able to move to a lower security environment to take that position. Evan has developed a beautiful drawing style, reflective figures rendered with a single number 2 pencil.

During dinner at the Grosmaire’s, and again at the Wilhelm’s, the phone rang about 7:30 p.m. A recorded voice iterated the procedure for accepting a collect call from the Florida Department of Corrections. Each family knew exactly what to do.

screen-shot-2016-12-28-at-5-59-39-pmDuring evening hours a phone line is open in the barrack. Prisoners line up for fifteen minute collect calls. If everyone participated, an inmate might be able to make two or three calls a week. But prison is no more equitable than any other aspect of our society. Evan and Conor often call every day, as many prisoners have no one to accept their call. The evening we spoke with Conor no other inmates were in line; we enjoyed a pair of fifteen-minute conversations.

Conor was full of news. He had just applied for an IT position, which he considered a good career move. Four sets of parental eyes shifted to one another, questioning whether that job would offer Conor the same preferences that his clerk position provides. For my part, as father of a twenty-six-year old free worlder, I marveled how my son and I might have a similar conversation. The parameters of opportunity are different in prison, but Conor still approaches life from the perspective of an educated, affluent white person. He optimizes the system, rather than being a victim of it.

Which begs the question, ‘Do Evan and Conor get special treatment because they are white? Because their families are so involved in their welfare? They answer is probably ‘yes’ but also, ‘so what.’ When a prisoner from Evan’s barracks at Wakulla sent an anonymous threat to a guard, every man in that dorm was wakulla-eagletransferred back to his base prison. Bob Wilhelm wrote a direct appeal to the warden at Wakulla. It worked. Evan was the only inmate returned to the faith and character based facility.

We live in a world of white male privilege. Why should we be surprised that transfers to prison? Kate Grosmaire has reached out to people involved with prison reform for the Black community, a group disproportionately impacted by our penal system. “They understand that what happened to Conor could not happen to one of them – yet. But they tell us, ‘because the legal system did this for you, they will have to do it for us as well.” That’s how change happens, from the bottom up, from the privileged to the disenfranchised.

Wherever the cyclist with the question shows up for dinner, the conversation turns philosophical. Michael McBride asked his son for perspective on his prison time. Conor replied, “I’m doing well considering a lot has changed in the past six years. It’s been a mental and spiritual journey, a strong one. The love and forgiveness the Grosmaire’s have shown me allows me to accept responsibility in a way that shame and guilt could have never allowed.

“Taking responsibility on killing Ann really let me focus on what was driving my anger. It comes down to acknowledging my faith, accepting that God loves me, not just in a slogan way, but that He ‘likes’ me. It’s more personal. It allows me to learn how my anger grew from insecurity. I also have the opportunity to be responsible. In prison, I have a job that is responsible.”


His mother Julie followed up, “Where do you see yourself in twenty years?”

“Out of prison. Possibly with a family, my own wife and kids; probably have a job. I have a lot of things in mind that would honor Ann’s memory. Maybe get involved in wildlife work. Ann loved that.”

Fourteen minutes into the phone call, a recorded voice cuts in to inform everyone there is one more minute. The McBride family tradition is to use that minute for one person to lead a prayer. This night, Conor leads all of us in praise and thanksgiving.


How will we live tomorrow?

evan“I have a hard enough time living day to day here. I try not to look to tomorrow. The farther down the road I look, the darker it looks. So I try to take the short view. I have twelve years to complete here. If I think about that, I cannot see my way to do it. So I reason, ‘You don’t have to do twelve years right now. It’s 7:37 p.m. I only have to do the next few minutes, the next few hours, until morning.’” – Evan Wilhelm

conor“From a restorative justice perspective I would hope we live more responsibly as a society. We look at crime as a mistake and we put away criminals to get them out of our lives. But the guys here are more than their mistakes. We regret our actions and want to get back into the mainstream society. When people are defined by the worst action of their lives, we are missing the full picture of who they are and what they are capable of. I am much more than a murderer. Other guys are more than rapists. I would like us to live tomorrow with more understanding that people are people first.” – Conor McBride


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Profile Response: Darlene and Robert Wilhelm, Ponte Vedra Beach FL

HWWLT Logo on yellowThis is the third of four posts profiling Floridians affected by restorative justice.

The case of Evan Wilhelm contains eerie parallels to Conor McBride, and revealing lessons of the potential, and pitfalls, of restorative justice.

Evan was a junior at Florida State University, a pre-dental student and member of Lambda Chi Alpha Fraternity. One Saturday afternoon Evan accidentally fired a rifle that instantly killed Ashley Cowie, his girlfriend’s twin sister. Bob Wilhelm, Evan’s father, trembles and shakes his head. “Why did those boys go to a gun show? Why did they buy an assault rifle? Why was Evan fiddling with it in the fraternity house?” Unlike Conor McBride, who shot his girlfriend with purpose, however short-lived his intent, Ashley Cowie’s death was an accident. Evan was charged with manslaughter, a crime that typically receives a ten-year sentence in Florida.


Bob, an attorney, got Evan released to home on reconnaissance. The Wilhelm’s reached out to the Cowie’s to express their sorrow, to no avail. Amy Cowie, Evan’s girlfriend, came to visit, often. One day Bob asked Amy if her parents knew of her visits; the next day they received a restraining order against further contact. An intermediary contacted the Wilhelm’s, offering to meet in a neutral location; it turned out to be a rouse for Amy to see Evan again. During one hearing in Tallahassee Bob positioned himself in the lobby, and when Mr. Cowie went to the men’s room, Bob approached, offered condolences and extended his hand. Mr. Cowie said nothing. Another time the Wilhelm’s were walking from the courthouse parking garage. The Cowie’s approached from behind. When Mrs. Cowie recognized them she screamed and ran the other direction.

imgres-2Without acknowledgement, without communication, there is no opportunity for restorative justice. Quite the opposite. As the case evolved the Cowie’s position hardened. They began to refer to the ‘murder’ rather than the ‘accident.’ At the sentencing hearing Amy testified falsehoods, according to the Wilhelm’s. It took the judge only a few moments to sentence Evan to twenty years, potential for parole after eighteen and a half. Once the criminal case was settled, the Cowie’s sued Evan, Lamba Chi Alpha, anyone associated with the accident. Though no amount of money could ever replace Ashley they pursued a course of suits and settlements.

“I feel desperate that I can’t do anything to help Evan.” Darlene Wilhelm bemoans a penal system that freezes the relationship of everyone involved at the moment of a crime. Perpetrators are coached to show no remorse or regret; which exacerbates victim’s rage. Our worst moment defines us forever.

images-2With her son in prison, Darlene descended into prolonged hopelessness. Then one day she discovered a beagle on the side of the road, brought it home, nurtured it and sought a home for it. An Episcopal priest adopted the puppy and discerned Darlene’s loss. She invited Darlene to Ecclesia, a non-denominational church that serves Jacksonville’s poor. Darlene became involved in Clara White Mission, serving breakfast to homeless. “You look around you and see the difficulties that other people have. It puts things in perspective. They are real people. They are not objects. We care about them.”

The Wilhelm’s continue to pursue appeal options. They travel three hours each way to Wakulla every other weekend, where they are allowed a Saturday and Sunday visit with their son: one hug at the beginning and end of each visit. They are close friends with Julie and Michael McBride; being parents of promising young men who did terrible things is a powerful bond. “We have a key to their house; they have a key to ours. We are in this together.”

How will we live tomorrow?

screen-shot-2016-12-28-at-5-33-07-pm“For me, and this has already started, I will be more sensitive to other people. I am so blessed to meet and be exposed to new people. For years, I found conversations tiresome exchanges of what people want of the other. Now, even the smallest conversations are gems of that individual and the greater human spirit. I am more open to understanding others.

So, how will we live tomorrow? Hopefully, personal conversations, talking around a table, will not be lost to our devices.” – Bob

“I will live tomorrow better than I lived today because of increased empathy, gratefulness, wisdom, and heartfelt sorrow for what happened yesterday. It’s hard to be the mom of a young man in prison and have two parents who are near the end of life. I worry about my son, a convicted felon for an accident, who will never vote, never get a job, never have an opportunity for full participation.” – Darlene


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Profile Response: Kate and Andy Grosmaire, Tallahassee FL

HWWLT Logo on yellowThis is the second of four posts profiling Floridians affected by restorative justice.

“Forgiveness is not a pardon. Forgiveness is not reconciliation. You own me a debt you cannot pay, but I’m not collecting the debt.”

I knew Andy and Kate Grosmaire were ‘Vatican II’ Catholics before I even stepped inside; a statue of St. Francis stands among the trees in front of their house. Inside, I found more symbols of the church I grew up in; one devoted to humility and service rather Catholicism’s more recent preoccupation with moral rigidity. I looked forward to an evening among humble shepherds.

161214-anns-statueKate and Andy are from Memphis. Andy landed a first job for the State of Florida in St. Petersburg and transferred to Tallahassee in the 1980’s, “If you’re a state employee, the gold is in Tallahassee.” Andy is now Bureau Chief at the Office of Financial Regulation; Kate is an IT consultant for the Florida Department of Transportation. They live five miles east of town, on a three-acre lot adjacent to the Greenway Trail that traverses miles of lush Florida hammock. “Ann had a horse; being near the trail was the main appeal of this house.”

Ann is dead now – shot in the face at age nineteen by her boyfriend Conor McBride. Kate and Andy have two other older daughters, but these days their life is defined by Ann’s murder, and their extraordinary response to it.

Ann and Conor had dated for several years, in the on again / off again way of teenage couples whose magnetic attraction short-circuits burgeoning individual identity. One summer Conor fought with his parents so hard that he came to live with the Grosmaire’s. He was accepted to Stanford, but decided to stay local. College success, independent living, and devotion to Ann swaled and crested. Conor asked Andy for his daughter’s hand in marriage. Neither Andy nor Kate thought the couple ready for that commitment, but they liked the boy, loved him really, and decided not to buck the inevitable. Marriage seemed ordained until one weekend Conor and Ann had an aching fight whose anger flowed into the following day. Unable to resolve the issue or cool off, Conor found his father’s gun, contemplatimgres-1ed taking his own life, but shot Ann instead. He drove around Tallahassee in a daze until he turned himself in. Ann survived, comatose, for nearly a week. She died on Good Friday.

Somewhere in the fog of turmoil Kate realized that she would never understand the why of what happened, and didn’t need to know. Ann loved Conor; Conor loved Ann. Revenge and retaliation would deny that gift and cement their tragedy. Kate chose to honor the good between them. She forgave Conor. She visited him in jail. She learned about the penalties he faced. She embraced his parents. The two families explored options for a young man who made a fatal mistake.

imagesWhen they learned about restorative justice, they cajoled the Florida judicial system to apply it, if awkwardly, to Conor’s case. “The pre-plea conference was not a complete success, but it was something that had to be done. We hoped to reach agreement as to what Conor’s sentence would be. Jack Campbell (prosecutor, now Florida State General) listened, but he did not reveal what the sentence would be at that time.” Conor McBride received a twenty-year sentence, no reduction allowed, to be followed by ten years of parole, community education and service; possibly the lightest sentence for first-degree murder ever in the state of Florida.

imgresKate has written a book about their restorative justice experience, Forgiving my Daughter’s Killer. The four parents have been profiled in the NY Times, featured on Good Morning America, and speak to groups interested in alternatives in our penal system. “The story is so much more powerful when all four of us are in the same room. People ask me, ‘How can you speak?’ Every time I speak, someone comes up and says, ‘I really needed to hear that today.’”


How will we live tomorrow?

andy“Helping each other, teaching each other.” – Andy

“Andy wanted answers. He wanted to know what happened. I didn’t need to know. I knew it wasn’t going to make sense. I always knew it was bigger than the Grosmaire’s and the McBride’s and Conor and Ann. This can affect the world and the entire universe for the greater good.

“Anger is the easiest emotion to be in touch with, but we seek more. We understand that we need turmoil in order to bring us to the point we have to change. We cannot keep turning people away, which is what Florida does. We have to change.

kate“If enough people start to think in a certain way, it spreads beyond them. If six million people believe something, it can spread to the collective conscientiousness. We had never heard of restorative justice, but we have learned and we are spreading the word. Andy and I are not yet the snowball at the top of the hill, but we’re one of the people who are going to understand forgiveness in a way we cannot understand now.

“The core of what I believe is ‘God is love.’ If you are good with that, I am good with you. I feel like forgiveness has allowed me to transcend most of humanity. I reflected on that for a very long time. You become a teacher, you share your story, but you occupy a place that few other people do.” – Kate


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Profile Response: Julie and Michael McBride, Tallahassee FL

HWWLT Logo on yellowThis is the first of four posts profiling Floridians affected by restorative justice.

The social graciousness of an evening with the Grosmaire and McBride families is so perfect; it’s like stepping into a Douglas Sirk movie. Kate provided the venue. “We’ll meet at our house because Andy has a deacon meeting at church and won’t be home until late.” Julie and Michael brought the food. “These look sweet, but are actually savory,” Julie explained as she passed a platter of toast points. Kate showed off her blue ribbon winning wax block. We discussed the changing pattern of deer sightings in their wooded neighborhood.

161214-wax-blockSupper was hearty soup with crusty bread and crisp salad. When Andy arrived we pulled another chair up to the table. When the McBride’s son, Conor, called during dinner everyone chimed in on the events of his day and his prospects for a new job.

The evening’s anecdotes of rescue dogs and honeybees were so comfortable, these two couples such obviously long and good friends, I finally stopped searching for the melodrama foreshadowed in every Douglas Sirk film. The sordid event that brought these couples close does not lurk beneath the surface. They have brought it into the light, acknowledged it, addressed it, and forgiven it. Which enables the Grosmaire’s and McBride’s to move beyond the worst day of their lives.

Six years ago, Conor McBride killed his girlfriend, Ann Grosmaire. Ann’s parents, Kate and Andy, found forgiveness in their hearts, expressed it to Conor and their community, interceded on behalf of the troubled young man, and championed the first case of restorative justice in the state of Florida. As a result, Conor is serving a twenty-year sentence for a crime that usually carries life, or execution.

Restorative justice turns our legal system on its head. Traditional criminal procedures freeze relationships at the point of the crime and isolate victims from perpetrators under the guise of protecting them. This hardens all parties. Criminals never fathom the consequences of their actions; victims never witness perpetrators’ remorse. Restorative justice brings perpetrators and victims together in structured settings to negotiate punishment and restitution. This does mean that punishment will be lighter. Rather, punishment can be more appropriate. Perpetrators are forced to confront their actions; victims have the opportunity to move beyond powerlessness.

161214-grosmaire_mcbride-1Restorative justice provided an avenue for the Grosmaire’s to forgive – not pardon – Conor. There was no precedent or structure within Florida’s penal system to do this. However, through a creative interpretation of the pre-plea conference, the Grosmaire’s, McBride’s, Conor, and a collection of attorneys and restorative justice advocates met face to face for five hours to discuss the young man’s fate. The result – a twenty-year sentence without probation and stipulations on community service and speaking about teen dating violence – is less creative than restorative justice might allow, yet is far different than any doled out to a murderer in Florida.

Conor is not the only person who’s benefitted. All of the parents have also found strength and peace through forgiveness. Ann’s murder can never be atoned, but the Grosmaire’s believe rancor and revenge would only fuel the hole that Conor’s bullet shot through both families. By choosing to forgive, Kate and Andy refuse to be collateral victims of his violence. The process also eases Julie and Michael’s isolating burden as parents of a murderer. They recognize that Conor’s crime does not just affect one young woman and one young man. It reflects our culture and affects the entire community.

How will we live tomorrow?

julie“With kindness.” – Julie




michael“I change the question to how can we live tomorrow. The Grosmaire’s took a stand on restorative justice that affects our whole community. It affects the victim, the perpetrator. They have unlocked the door for a new, more just way to live.” – Michael



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Profiel Response: Aiden Sewall – Fayetteville AR

HWWLT Logo on yellowAiden Sewall studied graphic design at John Brown University in Siloam Springs, but has spent his adult life in education and missionary service. He taught English for five years in Vietnam, then two years in Cambodia. In Dubai Aiden worked among the South Asian immigrants who fuel that bustling emirate. “It wasn’t strictly missionary work. We were providing social services to those in need in Jesus’ name.”

Now Aiden lives in Fayetteville with two apartment mates in a complex that caters to students. He has complied his travel memoirs into books and works for Global Outfitters, an outreach arm of New Heights Church, a local church with a mission of service. Other New Heights initiatives include running a local coffee shop to support a Guatemalan orphanage, a support group for people with disabilities, obtaining refugee center status for Fayetteville, and sponsoring the city’s first reimg_8427-1fugee family from Sierra Leone: people who have never lived outside a refugee camp.

New Heights Church strikes a middle road in terms of politics and ideology, creating a large tent for Christians interested in doing service in Jesus’ name. It is unusual among churches in that it eschews owning property. When the congregation, which meets in the Fayetteville Boy’s Club, outgrew the gym where they meet on Sundays, they funded an expansion of the Boy’s Club rather than build their own facility. “Church should be based on community. The buzzword is that we’re an Acts 2 church, based on the book of Acts, Chapter 2 in The Bible.”


Aiden, age 41 and single, is dedicated to living his faith, but he is not a minister. “I function as a chaplain rather than as a preacher. I am better at consulting. I have a strong personal faith and global point of view. I want to be a good representative of my faith, but not dogmatic.”

imgres-1Aiden grew up in a Little Rock family he describes as, “straight GOP.” Then he discovered, a Christian order that works among the poor, and his perceptions changed. “Undocumented workers are a theological issue. Are national borders god-made or man-made? If they are man-made then must people of God be bound by them?”

Aiden looks forward to a time of universal governance (unlike many fundamentalist who view that as a condition leading to the Antichrist). According to Aiden, there are 83,000 different Christian denominations throughout the world, whose shared principals are few. “There is a passage where Jesus prays for unity, but with 83,000 differences, and other religions, that unity is hard to find.”

images“We live on two planes. One is intellectual; the other is the human you meet in the park. Social media is all intellectual. Faiths have these same two planes. One highlights our differences, the other our commonalities. I try to relate to people directly and not go up into the intellectual attic.”

How will we live tomorrow?

 img_8424“We can answer that in so many ways. It is not just the good overtaking the bad. My faith shows that will happen when people live as decent humans. But it cannot happen without Jesus. His love is contagious. I believe it can expand to encompass the earth.

“You think there’s all this unity, and then there’s Donald. Trump. So it’s a spiral. People don’t learn from history, but I believe we can spiral up. Our survival as a human race has a lot to do with each other. We all know there’s more to life in two than in one. Jesus knows that. His branding is that all who love Him know and love each other.

“We have confidence, as Christians, in the future.”

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