The other night we went to Gigi’s Playhouse. It was teen night – young people with Down syndrome, 17 years old and up. They were getting together to hang out. We’ve done this before, met with groups, hoping for connections, hoping for more than a simulation of a night out with friends, hoping for friendship.
the skin on my fingers starts to burn. being outdoors these past few days is a little like the lies i tell myself. they seem like good ideas. they can’t possibly be that dangerous. my boots step onto the snow but it doesn’t feel like snow normally does. i know what it feels like to
my daughter told me i have a beautiful heart and that i needed to keep my peace, keep my calm, so the morning after the election i ended up at a yoga class. the instructor arrived and unlocked the door. she was a young black woman. she said good morning and i said it back.
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
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
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