Every time Ruth needed the waffle iron, she had to move the good plates. There were twelve of them, stacked behind a set of matching cups on the highest shelf. White china. A thin blue border. Small yellow flowers she had once known the name of. She had chosen them forty-three years earlier. Back then, she had imagined a house full of people. The plates had mostly stayed in the cupboard. Her granddaughter came over on a Tuesday because the school had a plumbing problem. “Just until three”, her daughter said on the phone. “Bring her.” By eleven, there were colored pencils across the kitchen table and a sweater hanging from the back of a chair. Ruth opened a can of tomato soup. “Grilled cheese?” “Yes, please.” Lucy was nine and had recently begun saying please with an exaggerated seriousness, as though someone might be keeping track. Ruth reached for two everyday plates. One had a gray mark across the middle. The other was chipped on the edge, where you only noticed it while washing. “C...
Voltaire believed he had seen the beginning of the end. The celebrated French philosopher had spent years criticizing Christianity and challenging the credibility of the Bible. Then, according to the story, he made a bold prediction: “One hundred years from my day, there will not be a Bible on earth except one examined by an antiquarian.” Voltaire died in 1778. Christianity did not. The Bible did not disappear. Instead, the story tells us that something wonderfully ironic happened. Within a few decades of Voltaire’s death, a Bible society purchased his former home and converted it into a warehouse filled with Bibles. Some versions add an even more satisfying detail: The printing press Voltaire had used to attack Christianity was eventually used to print the very book he believed would disappear. The skeptic was gone. His prediction had failed. And his house had become a distribution center for the book he could not destroy. It is the kind of story preachers love. It is tidy. Memorable....