Europeans, I hear, have some very distinct opinions about Americans. We’re brash, overconfident, self-indulgent, and often rude. And we speak only English. So whenever we find a European who also speaks English, we’re too inquisitive. And after engaging in conversation for as little as five minutes with a native, we’re likely to ask, “What do you do?” Meaning, of course, how do you earn a living?

Have you bought your eclipse glasses yet? Since I live about 100 miles from the path of totality, I’m calculating how to get maximum viewing with minimum traffic headaches (and praying for a cloudless day). Aug. 21 will be a once-in-a-lifetime, special-matinee-showing of one of God’s heavenly splendors.

The 1950s was a religious decade, especially if you grew up in the South, as I did. In many ways that was a blessing: low crime, friendly neighborhoods, stable homes. In other ways, not so much—at least in certain denominations where the Word was weaponized and flaming darts of doctrine hurled from one True Church at another. Religion, among the faithful, seemed to be a matter of following the rules—after getting the rules right, of course. Imagine, after a childhood of dueling dogma, how refreshing it was to discover Jesus Himself under all the strictures. And what was He holding out?

Last month saw a flurry of responses to a strange blog post by feminist Jody Allard. Allard has two teenage sons, whom she described as “strong and compassionate—the kind of boys other parents are glad to meet when their daughters bring them home for dinner.” But “other parents” don’t know these boys the way their mother does. She finds their cavalier attitude toward her fears of the rape culture very disturbing. Their “Oh come on, Mom” refrains prompted her to write a piece for The Washington Post last September, which in turn provoked a domestic backlash.

A couple I know is celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary. They’re the first baby boomers—my generation—whom I know personally to reach that milestone. Others of us have only a few years to go before observing their own golden anniversaries, and that’s something to celebrate. But our generation also marks where those bonds began to break down.

It was a frigid night in North America, mid-1770s. Boats and floating ice bobbed on the river as ragged men shivered on the bank, waiting to board. Their resolute leader strode up and down among the troops, urging them to keep their powder dry and their passage swift and silent. With a flag bearer and a handful of eager aides, he commandeered one of the boats for himself, climbed aboard, and settled in for a cold journey.

They had a dream: a God-ordained dream. After years of service in a foreign land, where they met and married and learned to speak the language fluently, they were ready to establish themselves in one area that would become their home, perhaps for the rest of their lives. They would raise their kids, start a business, establish a church, and win souls to Christ. Their goals were admirable and honest, and all the early obstacles were overcome. Surely the Lord’s hand was on this enterprise—until it failed.