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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what you’ll find there

have you ever felt too dependent on someone? that sort of if i’m not near this person, i’m not quite sure the world will continue on as it should? yeah, me neither. when that person breaks your heart, you could have a real chance. a chance to find out what your definition of love is

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ascending at your friend’s house

before jesus ascended into heaven, he took a walk. he led his followers to bethany on the eastern slope of the mount of olives, a sabbath day’s journey, about a half mile. he blessed them, lifted his hands and bye. mary, martha and the resurrected lazarus lived in bethany.  was he walking them home? was

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when staying at home is lame

the grocery store is its own particular type of torture. i must be thankful for the resources to be there, the choices, the strength in my legs to walk the aisles, to push the cart.  i know.  i must be. but when you’ve done something a few hundred times it loses that certain something and

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when the gospel goes missing

in a drawer, tucked away like a shirt, is the gospel. black and white beads on a thin string.  my daughter made it in a sunday school class.  its simplicity stole my heart. i put it away. reaching for a swimming suit i would see it sometimes.  i liked to. it reminded me of seeds

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