Monthly Archives: March 2018
When I put pen to paper, there’s only room for one thought at a time. Every thought is on equal footing.
I don’t believe in a god anymore. This wasn’t without cost, and there was grief, naturally. But after grief comes normalcy. Also, humour.
Remember: you have more time to do the things you want to do than you might think.
Never had I been overcome with such a surge of euphoria accompanied by petrifying fear and grief.
The new tyranny of everything-at-once feels like a distant dystopia, and the sky looks a different color, and there’s another new, another normal.
Getting into the river was a comically tedious process. Everything was covered in a foot of snow, and the banks were mostly iced-over.
And, on that Sunday, George remembered.
What has a man from all the toil and striving of heart with which he toils beneath the sun? For all his days are full of sorrow, and his work is a vexation.
Last week, I spent an hour and nineteen minutes with an onion. Inspired by Robert Capon’s twenty-two-page chapter on the theological implications of mindful onion contemplation, I came prepared for a reflective and mystical experience.
Most importantly of all, the Parkland activism has led tens of thousands of young people around the country to become civically engaged.
I want the noble purpose of an educator without having to put in the hours. I want to retain a teacher’s saintly glow without having to fight for the daily miracles.
No algorithm is going to teach mandated reporters that white families are just as dangerous as other families.
Turning out in droves despite rain and wind and snow, we marched and chanted and beat on bucket-drums and blew on whistles and papered the campus with fliers. We disrupted classes. We shut down buildings.
If you ever hear me screaming “What if there’s more? What if there’s more?” I’m just singing along.
Coming off a slow, ugly but eventually conclusive first-round victory over Montana, the Wolverines are riding a wave of 10-straight wins. May the streak run longer than their inseams.
November 19, 2014
I blew strawberry gelatin mix out of my nose today.
I don’t want to talk about it.
Locusts. They were good enough for John the Baptist; they are good enough for your toddler.
I still talk to myself. Big conversations I’ve rehearsed of late include a breakup, a car insurance claim, and a defense of “inappropriate” literature I’ve chosen for a class.
I didn’t swerve around the pothole because I didn’t see it. In many ways, I’ve forgotten how to look outside myself and outside my culture.
I think when we look down on children it’s because we have momentarily, or perhaps chronically, forgotten that little kid inside earnestly whispering, “Don’t forget me. I’m still here.”
The main reason for the break up was something she called “bad timing.”
You learn to love the foods that have nothing. Coffee. Mustard. Certain brands of hot sauce.
“It doesn’t matter what you do,” I will tell my children, “as long as you like yourself better than you like most other people.”
With a new pastor in the pulpit after a long stretch of interim pastors, I’ve been hopeful. But in the past few months, we’ve hit a new series of lows.
Jesse will be your second Tinder date, and your last.
be with every late night job-searcher, every too-old-for-internships-er, all of us just looking for a step in the door. Be with the waiters who aren’t scientists yet, the sales clerks who aren’t published yet.
All this to say: the place you live is not merely the setting to the story of your life.
What if we heard all accents this way—not as a sign that English is not one’s first language, but as a sign that another language is?