I have the great privilege to live near both of my adult children. Each of the three households contains dogs as part of the family.
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Small silver fingers of morning light creep over the ridge across from my front porch. Morning comes on slowly in our little valley.
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I am an English teacher. And, like most English teachers, I love to read. Poetry. Prose. Comics.
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My wife and I are in the midst of one of life’s transitions, downsizing from the big house the kids grew up in to a smaller house that better suits our needs.
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This morning I woke up, got out of bed, skipped dragging a comb across my head (sorry John Lennon), and started my morning chores, my daily routine. My every day routine.
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Each Saturday, I sit down with my sister-in-law and plan our household’s meals for the upcoming week.
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Do you believe in Moments? Times when all the tumblers of life line up, and you feel the snick of the Divine pouring through the fabric of what was a normal day.
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Honestly, if you look at the bones of pilgrimage, it is not terribly complicated. Prepare, journey, arrival, return, re-enter. This can’t possibly be all there is to it. That could describe any trip.
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Where would you be willing to go if you weren’t sure of what would meet you there?
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The active work of Pilgrimage begins with the decision to go.
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In doing more thinking about how we choose to evolve or entrench in our theological interpretations, I was speaking to a friend of mine who has been doing some work with women who are moving out of sex trafficking.
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I’ve always struggled with the Noah and the Ark story. It doesn’t fit tidily into the loving and redeeming trajectory of God’s story with Man.
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Like most of the people I talk with, I am genuinely bewildered at how divided people of faith are currently when we all claim to believe in God.
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In my first few years of sobriety, as I was rebuilding my life and it felt like every door was closed to me, my AA sponsor would encourage me to stand in the dark hallway and wait for God to open another door.
One. That’s how many all-nighters I’ve pulled. And it wasn’t even to study or complete a project.
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What do you do with Jesus? Lent is a season of reflection, confession, and penitence. As penitents, we have walked deeply into ashes and doubt, sorrow and regret, rest and forgiveness.
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To walk in the forest is to encounter the passage of centuries. A cathedral of time marked off in rings of alternating slow and fast growth.
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She is smack dab in the middle of losing her baby teeth. One of her front teeth is growing back in, but the other is a cheerful gap. Her knees are knobby and bruised from jumping off swings and bouncing on the trampoline.
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All snowflakes start from a particle of dust. As they fall through the wet womb of the cloud, they grow feathers or spikes or wings: each according to its journey.
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His feet dragged through the sand. There was no reason to walk down into the valley. It hadn’t rained since he had last been there, and his sheep would find nothing but starving locusts.
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