David McElroy

Every time I hold a newborn baby, I’m filled with wonder — because each new life feels like a miracle.

We don’t like to talk about miracles today. Rational materialists laugh at the idea that miracles can happen. Even Christians draw a line between the “supernatural” and things we choose to accept as normal. Some of us would rather not talk about anything that science can’t explain.

But the longer I live, the more I’m forced to accept that there are plenty of truths that nobody can explain. Life and love are ordinary miracles. We might accept that they’re real, but we have no more explanation of them than we have of how Jesus might’ve turned water into wine.

Our lives are filled with ordinary miracles. In fact, the best parts of our lives are those inexplicable things that don’t have natural explanations. Those things are far more impressive than the supernatural miracles that so many people try to find.

It’s as though we’re so accustomed to these tiny miracles that we pretend we understand them.

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It was 15 years ago this week when I posted the first articles to this website. For the first few months, I struggled to figure out the site’s direction — and some of the early articles were pretty terrible.

(This review of the first “Atlas Shrugged” film is still completely accurate, though.)

I posted a couple of articles before I announced anything and then I announced the launch on May 13, 2011 with a post on Facebook. The screenshot above is from 11 years ago, so it reflects the basics of the older design I used from the beginning.

There are times when I read things I’ve published here and I’m embarrassed about them, especially the earlier material. The things I’ve been publishing for the last five years or so are a reflection of how my priorities have changed. (Here’s a guide to my current content.)

I’ve realized that the things I now see as important are not “social media-friendly,” so I have a real problem connecting with the people I truly want to connect with today. For most people, the work I publish now is almost invisible.

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The email arrived a little after midnight while Daniel sat alone in the pale blue light of his kitchen, half watching a movie he would never finish.

Light rain moved softly through the neighborhood outside. Water shimmered beneath the streetlights, and the wet pavement reflected long ribbons of gold across the empty street. Lucy lay asleep on a rug near the back door, occasionally thumping her tail in her dreams. Oscar sat motionless on the windowsill beside the front door, his yellow eyes fixed on the rain beyond the glass.

The subject line said only:

Hello from the Past.

Daniel almost deleted it without opening it.

Probably spam. But he clicked on it anyway. Maybe it was the late hour. Maybe it was the phrasing. Or maybe middle-aged men are simply too curious about the past.

He opened the message.

I came across a recent picture of you online and wasn’t surprised to see you haven’t changed much.

The movie was still playing, but Daniel no longer cared. He clicked it off.

He read the message three times before he was sure there was no name attached.

No signature. No clue. Nothing except a final sentence that settled inside him heavily.

I will always love the man who loved me best.

For a long time he sat motionless at the kitchen table. His gaze absently shifted to the dark window, where rain traced crooked lines down the glass.

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