Klavan presents the reader, not with a MAGA country or a Marxist Utopia, but with the country in which we were raised; a country where our memories are still trying to hold on. It’s the story of two murders; one a mystery, the other a parable.

How does the “nice” Christian prepare as the horizon darkens? He must become a light in his community, someone unmovable, willing to offend and even be wounded for the Christ he follows and the moral values he promotes. In doing so, his “nice” will die. The pressure will forge a Christian, not loved, but respected; A Christian not “nice”, but kind.  

We must remember that the promise of heaven should not drive us to apathy, but to courage. This life is not all there is. There are habits we must form, and rewards wait in heaven for those that live exceptionally well in difficult days.

When our study has the proper aim of God, our pride is shattered, our thirst for knowledge is satisfied and strengthened, and our hearts for the lost can overflow with the love of God.

What of the crumbs under his table? I am worse than a dog. I am the dust under his feet, and the substance on which his holy fingers wrote.

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In A Strange Habit of Mind, we join our protagonist, Cameron Winter, as he continues his crime-solving work. But we also get a window into his past. It is realistic, moving, and crushing all at the same time. Klavan pulls us into Winter’s beliefs, ethics, and inconsistencies, not just with a good plot, but with ideas that you and I face every day.

How does the “nice” Christian prepare as the horizon darkens? He must become a light in his community, someone unmovable, willing to offend and even be wounded for the Christ he follows and the moral values he promotes. In doing so, his “nice” will die. The pressure will forge a Christian, not loved, but respected; A Christian not “nice”, but kind.  

When our study has the proper aim of God, our pride is shattered, our thirst for knowledge is satisfied and strengthened, and our hearts for the lost can overflow with the love of God.

What of the crumbs under his table? I am worse than a dog. I am the dust under his feet, and the substance on which his holy fingers wrote.