he’s out there now by the mulberry tree. he stands and eats just like his dad and he found the tree along the new fence, in the new yard, at the new house. three days earlier i sat on the grass and heard the splash, heard the yelling. i jumped up once i pieced together
i like to say that when i got high for the first time, i was solved. i was up north and sitting around with people older than me, who knew better, but didn’t care. we passed around dented beer cans and wore ripped jeans. i sat back on a stranger’s sofa and i was solved.
i walk through the garden like so much grace. is this what the love of god is like? spilling over, too much, fragrant and extravagant. someone planted these trees years ago. they had a vision of the uncountable blooms falling heavy. they gave their time and lined the lane and today i’m walking among the
someone told me i was disobedient and just not simple enough. why can’t i take god at his word and believe? great. just great. okay, it wasn’t actually a person who said this. it was a book. alright, it was a theologian from 1916 yelling across time. fine. it was oswald chambers. i really like
he placed his spread hand over his heart and told us that this was a sincere gesture. and he was right. i do that. if i hear news that touches deep, my fingers fly up and lay down flat, a shield for my heart as it takes in the new information. “this is a sincere
why does grace threaten me like it does? i walk up snow covered hills with children and more snow falls down all around us. they are insatiable. whatever is good, whatever is lovely – these children will take these things. i feel like i’ve had my hands closed tight for a while now. if grace
“I love those boots. Where did you get them?” I look down and remember the lilies of the field. I’m in this situation often. “My mother gave them to me. I’m not sure where she got them…” (today i’m writing over at Catapult Magazine – their current issue is looking at the biblical metaphor of
i pick up the knife and pierce what is right in front of me. the practice of killing time becomes a habit and is it possible to murder a minute, an hour, a day? could i leave months and years bleeding behind me? time arrives faithfully every second hoping for better treatment, for mercy –
i’m tired and drinking coffee to open my eyes. i’m snapping at children just out of their beds. these two small words are far from my heart. thank you. the cooler morning in green shade is right out my back door. i go and i sit and i read these words from oswald ~ “jesus
he won again. mazzy is upset and wants a chance. a chance. abe looks over at her and says this: “okay maz. i’ll let you win this time.” i feel bad about his words. why does he have to tell her? why can’t he just let her win and let her think she did it?