When a friend told me she was spending $5,000 on a professional matchmaker, I gawked at her and didn’t understand. I was surprised that modern-day matchmakers exist, but was even more surprised that my friend—let’s call her Emily—would have a hard time dating.

Southwest Winner: Colorado Burma Roundtable Network

When Li Ling first arrived at the Denver International Airport with her husband and two young children, she felt relief. It’s a common emotion refugees from Burma like her share when they land in America: Finally, they’re far, far away from the military dictatorship of Burma (also known as Myanmar) that terrorizes ethnic minorities through forced labor, torture, and arbitrary imprisonment. Like many of her fellow refugees, Li Ling didn’t know what awaited her in this new country, but she felt safe for the first time in years.

When President Donald Trump announced Brett Kavanaugh as his U.S. Supreme Court justice nominee, liberals flung on sackcloth and wept publicly about the demise of women’s rights. Their jeremiad: The Supreme Court may one day overturn Roe v. Wade, and women will no longer be able to have abortions on demand.

If there was ever a city people love to hate, it’s Los Angeles. After living in this sprawling, dusty, smoggy, freeway-gutted, billboard-asphyxiated city for nine years, I’m convinced that we Angelenos love LA as much as we hate it.

We seem to live in two worlds.

In the first world, we brush our teeth, make oatmeal, and smile at the person serving us coffee. In this world, we feed our cat (or dog, if you’re one of those people), kiss our lover, hug our friends, and greet strangers “Good morning” and “Good evening” on the streets, at the market, and in restaurants.

I have met many missionaries in my lifetime, and I don’t think I’ve ever met a single shy missionary. 

I live in a neighborhood that seems to be the proselytism hub of Los Angeles. Let me describe why.

Recently, I was doing a quick run around my block when a woman jumped out of a corner, scaring me out of my skin. I skidded to such a sudden stop that my knee made a resentful “pop!” sound. The Hispanic-looking, guava-shaped woman, who had a long jet-black braid that swung near her hips, thrust a pamphlet at me and said, “Jesús te ama!” I refused the pamphlet, and though I smiled at her, frankly I was a little annoyed.