Monthly Archives: April 2015
I glean donated furniture after things that mark some kind of unraveling—an estate sale, a move, a downsizing. I’ve begun to think of my work as a conservation of energy.
Minutes later I hear the same scuffling. The sound continues. Then a cold trickle of dread seeps into my semi-consciousness. Someone is in the house.
You will find dark corners and blood capsules, both of which hide secrets. Here you will find costumes, gimmicks, and masks all covering something but creating something else.
We should all be able to answer the question: “How does your faith affect your work?” But maybe an even more appropriate question is, “How does your work inform your faith?”
In the face of wrong in which we have a share of the implications, I hope Koreans—and people of other societies alike in their own contexts of crisis— feel a sense of shame.
I need to flex my failure muscles, to take risks and be willing to fall flat. I need to love myself for making mistakes.
But if humans alter the meaning of nature itself, by which we understand God’s power and faithfulness, we may end up losing touch with God in an essential way.
It is manifestly astonishing, in the waning days of the vampire craze in which we find ourselves, that there are still vampirical depths yet to be plumbed.
Five miles. I’m finally loosening up and integrating the constant blare of spectators into my normal state of existence. I stay calm and don’t mind people passing me.
I suppose it was not until I drove it home, filled it with water and plant food, and plugged it in that I realized how far in over my head I truly was.
A car and a job, all in a couple of days. Seven o’clock—time to get up. Laura came bounding into the room. And that was when I found out I was going to be a father.
For yours truly, however, mid-April means “I-only-have-three-days-of-classes-left-and-HOW-many-papers-are-due-on-Friday?”
It was early Saturday evening, and I’d slipped in the door of my local Billa—short for Billiger Laden, or Cheap Shop—ten minutes before closing.
But, five years later, it’s enough. It’s enough for me get over my insecurities and care about someone. Someones. The someones I grew up with.
Take a breast. Its nipple is sore from just feeding the baby—who gummed it like she was trying to rip it off—now slumped against the belly, a limp part of a limp, tired body.
It has even worked its way into my eating habits. That sandwich is the best on the menu, you say? The one with a lot of things on it, yeah? Okay I’ll pass.
There is one space that makes me nervous. It’s not a space we hear a lot about or a space we have pictures of. I can’t rearrange it or make sure it’s painted my favorite colors.
I found that women expect themselves and other women to be servants in the church and often that expectation is tied to their femininity.
I don’t forget my body in Cairo, or rarely. I am thickly and humanly here, and it doesn’t feel much like art. It’s odd and awkward and difficult to understand.
There was no lightning. No music. No narrator. No hoverboards. I learned that people lie to you in order to get you to buy things, and I learned not to trust commercials.
Don’t tell anyone this, but last year I dreamed of being in middle-of-nowhere-Michigan while wandering the beautiful streets of the El Barrio district in Barcelona.
We promise love between sheets and in delivery rooms and at hospital bedsides. We say “God is love” and “the greatest of these is love.” But when it comes down to it, whenever we talk about love, none of us are really saying the same thing.
The whole idea of resurrection is something of a mossy mystery—thinking about what it means for the Christian faith and, especially, what it means for how we live today.
But probably, it was simply a pure moment, where the present brushes eternity and leaves a faint aroma of godliness. I breathed in. The rain whispered, and the grass ruffled.
Poet and memoirist Mary Karr writes: “The very word incarnation derives from the Latin in carne: in meat. There is a body on the cross in my church.”
I was four or five when I ran away from home. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision stemming from my preschool sense of injustice.
But when I tell this to people, my writing hopes and dreams and thoughts, the first question they invariably ask is: “What do you write?”