I think I have embraced a moderate appreciation of scripted prayers while maintaining some degree of prejudice against them. They had their place, but their place was not very generously defined. Although, I think that my prejudice was held against virtually anything that was scripted. I never would have imagined that I would find my heart so alive and thriving in a liturgical service. It seems, now, that the odds of me crying at church on Sunday morning are about as good as the odds of me winning a game of Catan. (It doesn’t happen every week, but it seems to be happening with greater frequency.)

Another thing: I think I just realized why I don’t write or speak more often. It suddenly struck me that I have come to expect myself to do everything with a “spontaneous and unceasing flow of inspiration with a corresponding cascade of eloquent and moving language.” I certainly do get rather frustrated when that is not the case.