The wooden boats float on a vast sea and they are burdened with the desperate and the dispossessed. In the summer months, when the wind is calm, it ...
The recent beheading of freelance journalist James Foley (pictured above) by militants from the Islamic State highlights the growing dangers that freelance reporters covering conflict zones face.
Maybe the pain of death -- of all the deaths this summer -- will finally remind us what it means to live.
The next time you read a controversial opinion article, instead of talking about "lynching" the author or what "gauge" shotgun you're going to use when you shoot him, maybe present a better idea to solve the problems he's trying to address.
More often than not, death by suicide is linked to major depression -- whether it was officially diagnosed or not.
My happy days don't give me immunity from depression, nor does my very abundant life. Beauty, money, fame, and even hordes of admirers don't keep anyone safe from this mental illness. It can affect anyone, and when it does, we need help.
I'm not sure why I walked into Barnes and Noble that afternoon, except that the "self-help" aisle seemed like a logical place to be as I pushed the wheelchair of my four-year-old son who had just been diagnosed with a rare, degenerative brain disorder.
The story began in July 1923 in Brooklyn, NY. A boy named Leonardo was born to a Sicilian father, Carmelo, and Italian mother, Rose. "Leo," as he was called, was later joined by six sisters and one brother.
While for me personally 10 dollars may be affordable, there have been quite a few people on Facebook who have complained about not having the free cash and feeling upset that raising awareness involved a mandatory donation. So no, I'm not doing the ice bucket challenge. Instead I donated money to help a poor mother food her children. And no, I'm not a party pooper.
Our lives are shaped by our mortality. Knowing from the beginning that we are going to die brings value to the currency of time. But it also deceives us into thinking that as we go forward, one moment is less valuable than the next.
May our own pursuit of racial justice and reconciliation begin with the death of the dishonesty in our own hearts and conclude in our own resurrection with the wild diversity of the people of God.
The friend who gave me the book knew that I had been investigating and writing about the phenomenology of traumatic loss since the death of my late wife in February of 1991 shattered my world.
Grieving isn't new for me, and it's been a long, long road -- this journey of saying goodbye to my father. Ronald Reagan called his Alzheimers the "long goodbye", and he was right. Since the day my mom called to tell me the news six years ago, it's been an incredibly difficult, painful but often beautiful experience.
I no longer took for granted the waking up every morning of myself, my husband, my children. If my sister could die, so could one of them.
If Shakespeare were alive today, it's likely that he would be writing very differently about the experience of aging, time, and death. People live longer and, at least in developed countries, are in far better mental and physical health than they were in Elizabethan England.
One of the greatest lessons in life is that everything is impermanent. All things come and go. We live in such a structured society, where everything is broken down into steps or organized in a rational way. But there is no rationalizing grief.