Seeing Red
I feel like I was sold a story of America, and a story of my people and who we were, and it turns out that it was mostly a lie,
I feel like I was sold a story of America, and a story of my people and who we were, and it turns out that it was mostly a lie,
Each week during the prayers of the people I make a mental inventory: do I know anyone who is ill? Anyone who is grieving? Anyone job-searching, traveling, celebrating?
It’s hardly the holidays without it.
I was tired. I was also tired of myself. So I started class with a poem.
But I am not paid for caring about my job.
I spend a fair bit of time with first year college students. I am sometimes envious of them.
I suspect that we sometimes use the language of blessing as a neat way to sidestep the questions those things raise.
We got a dog.
Perhaps it was outside of Ottawa, where yet another AirBNB featured a drip coffee maker but no filters or beans.
Why would I give up my dog?
It is so hard, in the midst of it, to see online dating as anything other than a means to an end—but it became much more palatable for me once I began to understand it as a life stage in its own right.
It’s unclear to me, still, how much of this was based in an adolescent desire for male approval.
Perhaps my first mistake was expecting that I would ever entirely grow out of it.
“I just need to know if it’s worth hoping,” we say. “Is this guy the One or not?”
The trouble was, though, that when I tried to imagine the stream of gold going on forever, my head would begin to thrum.
B: I think that it might be important to take a minute and savor the fact that you no longer actively think you’re terrible
Five bags of MAPEI Self Leveler Plus Indoor Self-Leveling Underlayment later, our living room is rather more level than it was before.
I was suddenly aware of everything: the squelch of the slider door’s rubber seal releasing as my brother came in from the yard. The creak and crash of the screen door to the garage behind my dad.
I am not sure how to accurately convey the unpleasantness of this experience. There was no part of my body that went gentle into that good night.
I remember my high school’s Friday morning chapel as uninspiring, but it seemed like everyone wanted to take part in the Class of 2010’s “senior chapel.”
I didn’t know how to write about a rain jacket on Palm Sunday after forty-four people died in their churches.
Stories of travel compel us, she says, because “more reliably than anything else on earth, the road will force you to live in the present.”
Last fall, my much-delayed Megabus dropped me off in Chinatown at 2:30 a.m. I had seven percent battery life, four dollars in cash, and no idea how to get to Brooklyn.
Well, shit, Jesus.
But Nathan was right. I can’t plan for the apocalypse. I can only do what I believe to be useful and good now. I can only do what is in front of me.
Let America be America again.
Christians shouldn’t be surprised that people think we’re assholes. As a collective, we’ve thrown our weight behind some pretty misguided causes.
Here I am, commuting by car into the big city. Here I am, one half of a white couple in an immigrant town. Here I am, trying to live honestly in an unfamiliar place, with imagination and empathy.
At every milestone I’ve consciously met in this life, I’ve supposed that I’ll feel somehow different on the other side.
Strangers think it’s “cool” that I lived there, which, whatever it means, isn’t true. It was something else entirely.