when it doesn’t snow

i’m walking across the wooden floor and grime comes with me.  there is dirt under my red slippers.  boots, kicked off on a towel also dirty, lay on their side with mud caked on. there is no snow to play in this year. no soft white quiet to cover the whole mess of the earth

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kicking through the ladybugs

our first day in ohio hundreds of ladybugs swarmed the front porch. they landed on each ledge and all five metal chairs.  they swung on the porch swing. and then they died. i crunched out onto the porch to be in a quiet place.  the trees bare and the purebred birds flitting and calling.  the sun

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all to reveal a secret we can’t hide

  during communal prayer at church, anyone can say anything.  i’ve heard mothers weep for children and homeless men go off on political rants. last sunday i had a prayer in my throat. but i think and rethink.  i wonder how i’ll say it.  i’m always writing my words. finally i pray. and as soon,

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hired too soon

i come into an empty room; wooden floors and a basket of yarn in the corner.  the table is holding four squares of sunlight and a fireplace is giving off heat from a morning fire. it is a beautiful place. i get the same feeling when i get to the shore.  the empty beach stretches

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through the airwaves

the countdown to summer has begun. somehow. i’m confused how we go from buried, too cold to step outside, to easter morning on the beach, toes in sand. but alas, it is so. and i for one will hold my spinning head and say thank you for the spinning globe. bare branches have performed their

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thoughts about faith and writing

i may regret this later, but i’ve never been so grateful. god is generous. i have work to do.  real work.  real service.  a way to love my neighbor as myself. and it doesn’t have to be a church building that you can walk into on sunday, it doesn’t have to be sandwiches made for

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