Monthly Archives: May 2015
“The Star Spangled Banner” is frequently a painful listen. At an octave and a half, the range is just a bit too wide to be comfortable for a typical singer.
This movie, and this blog, could be a testament to how much this all hurts: life, and time, and how they just refuse to stop moving on. We all have a time we’re trying to get to.
My life is just as real, just as full, and just as much mine as it ever has been and ever will be. I may not know what it will look like in a year, but I know that God knows.
I am a 5’6” (and ¼”) self-contained universe bumping against the fringes of being-hood. There is no purpose in questioning a slab of reflection for answers only found beyond it.
I have a tattered, taped-up copy of East of Eden that I’ve read somewhere around ten to twelve times. Whenever people ask me my favorite book, I’m quick and decisive.
We should vote and be thankful that we can, but we also need to ask: how can I regain a love of politics when politicians represent parties instead of people?
During the first week of school, not a single one of you would laugh at my jokes. Now, some of you kind of do, probably just because you’re trying to be encouraging and nice.
When I moved to Boston, I had a dream about the church I would attend. I would get there by public transportation, because I like to believe that God is green.
One way I feel Easter season’s lack of spiritual resources is in the lack of church music about the resurrection life to come, what we are “practicing” for.
Chuck is, for O’Neill, an incarnation of New York itself: brash, quick-talking, big-dreaming, and under the surface, deeply flawed. Even his self-proclaimed motto sounds gimmicky.
Immediately, I sprinted to the finish and found my athlete crumpled like a pop can, every iota of energy spent. I haven’t felt happy or proud like I did in that moment for years.
Such a sentence reminds the world that everything is a living art, every idea can be made new again, every stone can have the moss pulled off and be rolled back down a hill.
To be honest, I doubt that feeling will ever go away, because (I have to take a deep breath before I even type this): I’m going to be a mother for the whole rest of the my life.
Two more ticks joined the swimmer in the bowl. We flicked an intruder into an empty pasta sauce container and scrawled “Tick Jar” across the glass in Sharpie.
What I lack in affection for Millie is doubly manifest in the 6’2” 230 pound frame of my younger brother, David. His love for her would be the stuff of a tear-jerking motion picture.
The stories from history seem recycled: different characters, sometimes different conflicts, but always the same plot. And I know that writing these words doesn’t go far enough.
I think in each of us there’s a deep well with love like water at the bottom, but if only the crawl down wasn’t so dark and our hands could carry more.
The clever phrasings, the lilting harmonies, the bone-soaking sadness, the hard-earned joy—it fills me up with the subtle satisfaction of uncertainty.
Faking it, I would argue, is actually the only way we’ll make it anywhere. So few of us are born with natural, shining pearls of talent that don’t need refinement.
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’ve been consuming an odd sort of patriotism along with my stroop waffels and hagel. Maybe it’s just that the Netherlands makes sense to me in the way that Egypt does not.
Quitting, when other people are involved, is extremely difficult for me because I like to make people happy. Quitting invariably means that I’m not making someone happy.
Hearing about a shooting that took place ten minutes from where I grew up. Learning sketchy details as they came in. Worrying if I knew anyone involved.
In September, I assigned a five-page fictional short story and Elinor took it upon herself to write a twenty-five-page story about a teenage girl named Sky who owns a mall.
One day of climbing and two nights of camping and an eternity of driving down this endless, evening road when I rounded a turn and my headlights found a hitchhiker.
It looked like a woman.
I think what fascinates me about windows is the same thing that’s always drawn me to books—all the stories and worlds that are playing out in addition to my own.
I looked down at Winston (or the other one), who still looked up at me pleadingly. He hadn’t moved an inch, even though there were about fifteen other willing petters around.
The slight, young instructor who was so patient when, earlier, I stumbled through the cha cha, drove me backwards with a force I had not anticipated.
These are the newfangled priests and priestesses. White lab coats their robes, surgical masks and safety glasses their phylacteries.