Monthly Archives: August 2018
As the train and your pulse both speed up, something happens. In the middle of a step, between the time when your back foot leaves the ground and lands in front of the other, you seem to be weightless.
I love the city I now call home, but it’s never been my destination.
I’m a youth director who wakes up most mornings wondering if God is even real. I’m prone to weariness from the locational and spiritual uncertainty of my future.
From the kitchen comes the pitter-patter of the pressure cooker, rap tap tapping, hissing spurts of steam, signaling that something delectable will be on the table at the next meal—most likely black beans.
A hot and electric pulse coursed through my body, like the shock you receive from an exposed wire, only longer-lasting, and warmer.
Maybe when I have bigger problems I’ll consider switching my primary care physician to someone with a background in medicine.
Or maybe I was right to be scared. Maybe my parents only told me giant spiders weren’t real so that I would let my guard down.
I’d personify the pigeons that crowd onto the narrowest of ledges on the building across the street, their plumage flashing psychedelic green and pink.
I’m not allowed to comment on the items that patrons check out, so I try not to pay attention.
It is in the repetitive ritual of opening and closing the house each day—unrolling the broken shade by hand, wrestling with the deadbolt on the warped front door, seeing age—that I find inexplicable revelations.
So, in order to commemorate these tenth Gay Games, I have decided to pen my very own over-the-top, saccharinely sincere Pindaric ode. Let’s hope it’s not, well, terrible.
What I’ve keyed into is the difference between learning as a victim and learning as a perpetrator.
All I know about the donut scene in Champaign, Illinois, I owe to a man named Pete.
The people I know with whom I’ve recently played chess are similarly much better than me. When we play, I view it more as a self-esteem boost for them than a real contest.
“Sì sì sì sì,” he said. The letters had rearranged themselves in Italian. This is how we would communicate.
And then—after all that hectic activity—all I had to do was drive. For five hours. On the same road. Beside a repeating pattern of corn and soybeans.
Since I know it is theologically unsound to pray for my life to be comfortable, I find myself praying that Paul will be safe, promote justice, and stay out of the news.
She took photos because it was something she had to do, because creativity flowed out of her and became her way of life. Because she had something to say.
O teachers! my teachers! your fearful year’s begun.
I don’t like change, and I am an anxious person. Nice to meet you.
Danke, Louise. Obrigada, João. Merci, Jess. Gracias, Vera.
There is the queer Christian story. And then there are the rest of us.
If I really believe that the Bible was inspired by the creator of the universe, it should be much easier to find that trust than it is with a series of young adult fantasy novels finished a decade ago.
You’ll know you’re getting close to the cashiers when someone tells you to go to the yellow cheese, the red pepper or the green grapes.
We welcomed the hilarity of our mistake, the unknowns of adventure, and the opportunity to give ourselves grace.
Taken as a whole, AmeriCorps VISTA is the lifeblood of nonprofit social service programs in this country, utilizing the interest and availability of young people for the greater good.
The last thing I want to read about is another long and beautiful and solitary walk.
She waddles so slowly and aimlessly on evening walks that it feels like you’re tricking her into moving forward. I swear her body’s just gotten doughier and wider while her head has stayed the same size.
When I first moved to Honduras three years ago, I ate everything my host family ate: beans, eggs, cream, tortillas. Heavy, simple plates—bland, but satisfying. But then suddenly one day, months in, I just couldn’t do it anymore.