it’s the small, secret things that make a life. the hidden actions between you and your creator that you don’t regret, but rather forget, immediately, because there was no wrongdoing, only pure motive, that will be remembered out loud, from the rooftops, on that day. i’m sick of social media and its law of diminishing
Categoryoutside
do you believe in whales?
whale sighting this morning. one tail spotted diving back down into this vast blue steel sea. a spray soon follows and it’s enough to convince me that yes, there are whales in this ocean all around. what about twenty years from now when i haven’t been back at sea and all i have are the
taking flight
i’d been at michigan state for maybe two full days. my roommate, stacey, played soccer. she’d put up a clock that looked like a soccer ball. the first night after my parents dropped me off she told me there was a party on the third floor and left a can of beer on the dresser for me.
a safe place to feel
last night i was talking to a group of women about emotions. we ended up fingerpainting and praying and laughing and crying. this morning i’m trying to remember how it feels to feel. i think paint may be in order. one friend said, it just felt good to have my fingers in paint. and it
seasonal heart
these days of muted light feel just about right. sometimes my heart feels wide open, easily accessible, like the bright blue. but not lately. no, when the sun gets further away, a thin sheet of ice weathered from the events and circumstances of the year forms. the thin places turn into visible pools of murky,
raspberry beret
a funny thing kept happening as we walked alone in rows of raspberries. every spot we stopped to pick there would be a better one directly across the way. each time the very next row would hold larger berries, branches with fruit threatening to drop from the weight. how can it be, i wondered each
whether or not you have ever dared to pray
maybe the light at the end of the tunnel is really a lamp lit in the window. seems the largest part of my life is a grasping, a strangling, trying to make a good thing and hold on to it as tight as i can. it turns into a mist, sand, a memory and i
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
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
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