I come from Indiana, specifically Indianapolis. That comes with certain connotations. Boring is one. Depending on who you’re talking to and what year it is is, that may bring to mind certain sports teams: the Pacers, the Colts. If you’re of a more literary bent, people like James Whitcomb Riley or Gene Stratton Porter might come to mind (why do they all have three names?). But internationally Indianapolis is perceived as a big racetrack in the middle of the fields.
Despite the fact that I lived within hearing range of the track growing up, I have spent most of my life completely innocent of racing. I know there are days you don’t want to be anywhere near the Speedway, but other than that, I don’t pay much attention. I was pleasantly surprised to find a blog post that started out with some of the open faith discussion that I genuinely enjoy. Of course, it then went on to talk about racing in general, and I lost most of my interest, but there was still a core of truth there that intrigued me – speaking out of affectionate difference, rather than isolationist bunkerism. I’d like a little bit more of that affection and tolerance in my life.