When I was in college, just entering the first stages of a faith crisis, I worked part time as a nanny for a widowed professor of church history who taught at the school I attended. I took his kids to soccer practice. I emptied his garbage. I folded his laundry on the kitchen table.
My mother, who worried about my waning faith, took comfort that I was employed by a man of faith. Maybe Jerry’s influence would do some good. Maybe folding the underwear of a famous Christian scholar—oh holy undertunic!—would somehow save my soul from faithlessness.
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