My bookshelf at the end
Packing up my library, I decided to let go of my Wolfhart Pannenberg books—and the wounds they represent.
(Century illustration)
“So, are you keeping any Pannenberg?”
“No,” I said after a pause so long my friend wondered if I had heard him. “Sorry, Wolfhart.”
He had come to the office to help me sort and pack for my next move, which I hoped would be my last: from a big parsonage to a little house of my own. In short, into retirement. Only a very few of my books would make the trip with me.
