Updated with eleven new stories and meditations, this Gold Medallion–winning classic interweaves vivid stories, deep meditations, and provocative allegories that together explore the power and meaning of love within an often inhumane urban landscape. The opening chapter, "Ragman," remains one of Walter Wangerin Jr.'s most beloved works and leads the reader to thirty–three other writings, all bearing the author's trademark poignancy and lyricism. Ranging from gentle reflections to heart–rending invocations, these selections are powerful, thought–provoking explorations of the meaning of faith, the person of Christ, and the communion of believers. Again and again, Wangerin's cries of faith touch our deepest pains with rays of joyful healing. “This diverse, polished collection. . .attests not only to Wangerin’s skill as a writer, but to the earnestness and warmth with which he enacts his vocation as a ‘servant of faith.’” - Christianity Today Updated with eleven new stories and meditations, this Gold Medallion–winning classic interweaves vivid stories, deep meditations, and provocative allegories that together explore the power and meaning of love within an often inhumane urban landscape. The opening chapter, "Ragman," remains one of Walter Wangerin Jr.'s most beloved works and leads the reader to thirty–three other writings, all bearing the author's trademark poignancy and lyricism. Ranging from gentle reflections to heart–rending invocations, these selections are powerful, thought–provoking explorations of the meaning of faith, the person of Christ, and the communion of believers. Again and again, Wangerin's cries of faith touch our deepest pains with rays of joyful healing. Walter Wangerin Jr. is the National Book Award-winning author of The Book of the Dun Cow . His other books include The Book of God , Ragman and Other Cries of Faith , and Miz Lil and the Chronicles of Grace . Excerpt Chapter One I saw a strange sight. I stumbled upon a story most strange, like nothing my life, my street sense, my sly tongue had ever prepared me for. Hush, child. Hush, now, and I will tell it to you. Even before the dawn one Friday morning I noticed a young man, handsome and strong, walking the alleys of our City. He was pulling an old cart filled with clothes both bright and new, and he was calling in a clear, tenor voice: "Rags!" Ah, the air was foul and the first light filthy to be crossed by such sweet music. "Rags! New rags for old! I take your tired rags! Rags!" "Now, this is a wonder," I thought to myself, for the man stood six-feet-four, and his arms were like tree limbs, hard and muscular, and his eyes flashed intelligence. Could he find no better job than this, to be a ragman in the inner city? I followed him. My curiosity drove me. And I wasn't disappointed. Soon the Ragman saw a woman sitting on her back porch. She was sobbing into a handkerchief, sighing, and shedding a thousand tears. Her knees and elbows made a sad X. Her shoulders shook. Her heart was breaking. The Ragman stopped his cart. Quietly, he walked to the woman, stepping round tin cans, dead toys, and Pampers. "Give me your rag," he said so gently, "and I'll give you another. He slipped the handkerchief from her eyes. She looked up, and he laid across her palm a linen cloth so clean and new that it shined. She blinked from the gift to the giver. Then, as he began to pull his cart again, the Ragman did a strange thing: he put her stained handkerchief to his own face; and then he began to weep, to sob as grievously as she had done, his shoulders shaking. Yet she was left without a tear. "This is a wonder," I breathed to myself, and I followed the sobbing Ragman like a child who cannot turn away from mystery. "Rags! Rags! New rags for old!" In a little while, when the sky showed grey behind the rooftops and I could see the shredded curtains hanging out black windows, the Ragman came upon a girl whose head was wrapped in a bandage, whose eyes were empty. Blood soaked her bandage. A single line of blood ran down her cheek. Now the tall Ragman looked upon this child with pity, and he drew a lovely yellow bonnet from his cart. "Give me your rag," he said, tracing his own line on her cheek, "and I'll give you mine." The child could only gaze at him while he loosened the bandage, removed it, and tied it to his own head. The bonnet he set on hers. And I gasped at what I saw: for with the bandage went the wound! Against his brow it, ran a darker, more substantial blood - his own! "Rags! Rags! I take old rags!" cried the sobbing, bleeding, strong, intelligent Ragman. The sun hurt both the sky, now, and my eyes; the Ragman seemed more and more to hurry. "Are you going to work?" he asked a man who leaned against a telephone pole. The man shook his head. The Ragman pressed him: "Do you have a job?" "Are you crazy?" sneered the other. He pulled away from the pole, revealing the right sleeve of his jacket - flat, the cuff stuffed into the pocket. He had