I wrote last week about recent changes in American life that seem to go against Americans’ understanding of themselves as a family-oriented society. Compared to other developed nations America’s divorce rate is high, its families are unstable and having children ranks low on couples’ list of things considered important for a happy marriage. Americans talk a lot about family values.

Americans like to think of their country as a family-centered society. Sadly, it isn’t. The numbers speak for themselves. More than half of all births to women under 30 occur outside marriage in America. More than 40 percent of unmarried cohabiting couples have children—but these relationships are five times more likely to break up than marriages, which themselves have nearly a 50 percent likelihood of ending in divorce. Asked recently whether children were important to having a successful marriage, only 40 percent of Americans said yes.

One of the saddest sights I see here in New York City takes place at the playground. A child calls to a parent, taps a knee, tugs a pant leg, begs. The parent stares at an iPhone. Finally, distractedly, the parent’s gaze lifts. “What, honey?”

I keep the most curious little book beside my desk. It’s no bigger than a notebook, 127 pages long. It appeared on the discard table here at Guideposts ages ago (the table where the vast majority of review book copies sent to us end up; you know what’s a great tragedy? the schlock quality of most Christian publishing in this country). I don’t even know how the book turned up here. It’s not new, not a review copy. It was published in 1974 by a woman no one’s heard of.

I can’t run and I’m not happy about it. A few weeks ago I was diagnosed with a stress fracture in my left tibia. Two fractures, actually. The cause was too much running. You really can have too much of a good thing. Now I have nothing. I’m forbidden from running for at least the next few months.

What does it matter that a year has gone by? Last April I blogged about a day my daughter Frances and I spent in the Connecticut River town Essex. We were in Connecticut because my wife Kate was leading a church retreat there.

Jogging the other morning through Riverside Park on New York’s west side I came across the strangest sight. I was running along a path lined with cherry trees. The trees were coated with cream-colored blossoms, an early spring visual feast. I saw a pink rectangle on one of the trunks.

The rectangle was a sheet of pink paper encased in waterproof clear plastic and tied to the trunk. A poem was typed on the paper:

Parenthood is the great leveler. This being New York where I live, Frances’ preschool enrolls kids from all sorts of backgrounds. At a parents’ meeting last night I was surrounded by people in finance, law and who knows what other high-profile jobs.

My daughter Frances loves stories. She can’t get enough of them. Brushing teeth, dressing, out on walks, on the subway, putting on pajamas, going to bed—she wants to hear a story.

I’m losing track of my own cast of characters. Once, maybe a year ago, I tried telling Frances a bedtime story. It was about Kelly, my old dog when I was a child. I think in that story Kelly might have climbed a tree to rescue an injured bird. I’m not sure. I can’t remember.

Kate and the kids and I flew to Seattle last week on vacation. Flights west always trace the same emotional arc for me. Endless green (white in winter) of the East and Midwest suddenly give way to mountains (Rockies), blond desert, mountains again (Sierras, Cascades). My heart gradually lightens and opens. I’m back West. I’m home.