Comments powered by Disqus. On his way to class, my son clutches a bit of invisible flame in his fist. The world is teaching my son that the way he chooses to dress makes him a target, and puts him at risk. My son does not yet have a faith. This, I know, is where a faith is built, and how: Sunday by Sunday, candle by candle, blessing by blessing, question by genuinely curious question—in safety and in love. Still, the damage was done.
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