writing about the vineyard

i went to a wedding last month.  the church was in the middle of nowhere.  mazzy and i drove miles and miles through fields of corn and vineyards.  the western side of michigan has vineyards.  rows and rows of grapes waiting to be turned into something else. or maybe not.  maybe they’ll stay grapes.  maybe

baptizing children

they put her in a white robe. it was her birthday. eight years old. it was easter and she had decided to get baptized. i don’t know what to think about baptizing an eight year old.  can a child really understand the decision that they are making?  the commitment that they are proclaiming with the

april showers

there’s this part in the bible.  i think it’s in the old testament somewhere.  it’s god talking to his people.  he says that when they get to the promise land, when they get everything they want – even more than they ever knew they’d possess, that they shouldn’t forget about god or he’d take it

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writing lonely stories

writing is ministering, pastoring, chaplaincy. i come to you and trace my scars with a fingertip.  i show you the map of me and at the same time you see that i’m healed up now, that i’m still here, that i’m okay. and so are you. for a long time, writing was a mirror.  the

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a fairytale they say

the snow started coming down and eleanor wanted to build a snowman with her dad.  she waited patiently.  she let her wishes be known.  she left the request on her father’s ear. we were busy.  abe had a dance on friday night.  saturday was special olympics and dinner at my parents.  kids stayed the night

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like a child

the other day a trusted friend hurt my feelings. i have a long and complicated relationship with friendship.  it seemed best to begin to plot my revenge immediately. i figured out the ways to protect myself and to hurt back.  i felt better. i also felt small.  like when i was child and i wanted

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eucharist

i’d slept over at julie’s and so when her family woke up for church on sunday morning, i did too.  we piled into their station wagon and drove to st. peter and paul’s.  i pulled at the sleeves of the dress i borrowed, the dress i’d never wear and i dreaded the building that i

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don’t worry, mom

don’t worry, mom. she says it enough lately that i’m starting to wonder that perhaps i’m more anxious than i know. mazzy turned 14 last week. it’s been less like a blink and more like a night of sleep.  time passes unaware, but it happened.  you were just out of time in a way. mazzy

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