L.M. Montgomery’s novel Emily of New Moon was the required reading of my undergrad that, quite possibly, excited me the very least. How could the misadventures of a young girl on Prince Edward Island possibly compare to the heroic heights of Beowulf or the literary—and ocean—depths of Moby Dick?

Over the course of the last year, I’ve taken on the labyrinthian task of dipping my toes into the murky depths of church history.

Though my grandmother didn’t speak much English, I loved her very much. More importantly, I knew that she loved me even more than could be imagined—no words in any language were needed to convey that reality. While my grandmother passed away some time ago,—almost fifteen years now—she remains in my memory as one of the warmest, kindest, and sweetest souls that I’ve ever known.