When I got home one day and saw him pathetically trying to work, I summoned up the vision of the ideal wife and did what she would do.
My students rarely say “no,” however. They say “It’s difficult” or “I’m tired,” because from their perspective they are trying.
Unfortunately, while one “bad” student—disruptive, selfish, rude—could derail an entire semester for an entire class, the opposite is not true.
Driving in Cambodia is not a careful endeavor. It is not orderly. The rules are, at best, flexible.
We started talking about all the shit she got done in Rogue One.
Unfortunately, it turns out Jyn gets zero shit done in Rogue One.
I can’t be the only woman who read his post and thought, “You’re kidding, right?” I can’t be the only woman who read his post searching for the punchline.
Tell me: am I using the wrong words? Wearing the wrong clothes? When I say “black lives matter,” why does it translate into “yours doesn’t”?
Maybe by the time I’m ninety-six or ninety-seven I’ll see things differently. Maybe I’ll see divine love in the allowance of racial violence, torture, and marginalization.
I reach for something on the floor, feel a breeze on my chest, and we both realize why the shirt has been so long closeted. “Oh,” I say. “Damn.”
Some of the men on my team couldn’t find a passing lane—offensively or defensively—if their lives depended on it, but no one notices that.
Last night I met a twenty-something who is in her last year of undergraduate work. She seemed so young, so bright-eyed and comfortable. I swear I heard my knees creak.
Entitled. Selfish. Hostile. Angry. Fearful.
This was a tantrum that got out of hand, causing me to forget that my desires are not the most important thing in the world.
Some people live in the past, but I prefer the future. When I slip into bed every night, I am waiting for the next good thing.
There is power in naming our fears, so here it is: I fear that sort of adulthood. The knowing sort. I fear it because it is a foolish and finite sort of adulthood.
But the bottle cap has disappeared into the space beneath the big, cold, white box. She has long since learned that is a dark place from which bottle caps do not return. She does not mourn its loss.
I’ve missed Saturdays. It’s been years since I had a proper one. In fact, it’s possible that I never have.
Euchre has very little variation. Sentinels of the Multiverse, on the other hand, has somewhere between 14 million to 230 million different game scenarios. That’s cool. Really. But those 230 different scenarios have a price-tag of roughly the same amount of rules.
It turns out that if friendship is based on common ground, it is literal ground shared that makes more of a difference than shared ideas. Friendship begins and ends with shared space.
The men and women writing and producing these shows are the missing element. They are giving us what we are hungry for: an intelligent and civil discussion.
He asks the Christian to both hate the world enough to want to change and it and love it without rationality. I do love and hate the world, I realized as I read, and that is something that matters more than I.
I fill the silence with keyboard tapping, clicking on links that ask me to write a new cover letter, tweak my resume, and fill in my name, my education, my credentials.
More helpful in the sanctification process is comedian Louis C.K.’s bit called “Of course . . . but maybe.” It is irreverent and shockingly relevant to Biblical hermeneutics.
I’m carrying around the symbol of someone’s desire to be with me the rest of his life. That’s awkward, especially since there’s no protocol for me reciprocating the gesture.
It is for this reason a man can be saved by faith through works. It is a great mystery. It is a still greater mystery to me why a pastor’s theology is ever given priority over its people.
I found that women expect themselves and other women to be servants in the church and often that expectation is tied to their femininity.
But in the end it’s words words words, nothing but wild and whirling words in our heads, and we’re dead in ways we’ll never be able to fix by thinking more about it.
I can buy many cookies with $250. So when I shelled it out, my tummy ached with the loss of thousands of cookies I was hypothetically never going to eat.
If I were a daughter of the 1200s like Mechtild of Madgeburg, I like to think that I, too, would have visions of and write poems about God.
O Dear Sweet Christmas Tree of the many pine needles, whom we all ignored eleven and a half months of the year but for whom we have so much love that we have to chop down and murder.