The Roaring Thirties
Now the future is here, and it is emails and budgeting. Good God, I used to be cool!
Now the future is here, and it is emails and budgeting. Good God, I used to be cool!
If I’m only painting for me, I’m not painting at all.
Your spouse may ask if you really need all these books and couldn’t you get rid of some? The only permissible answer to such an insult is “I don’t understand the question and I won’t respond to it.”
From the old dresses to the guitar for someone’s kid’s lessons, I was thrilled that my trash could be someone else’s treasure.
I won’t miss the commutes.
It was so sweet how you wanted to make me feel comfortable.
The show is a necessary skewering of how easy it can be for an earnest Christian community to be infiltrated by something monstrous.
Sure, hitting the high note in “O Holy Night” by yourself is an accomplishment. But belting the high note in Handel’s Messiah in a hundredfold choir is true musical ecstasy.
What’s the hotline number for when the word “die” echoes in your brain so blandly that you almost don’t notice it anymore?
No parades or football games or absurd shopping sales muddle the meaning.
I’ve been discovering different versions of myself lately as the medicine, or lack thereof, messes with my head.
We could’ve seen the excessive nail-marks in the wall as holes, but we chose to see them as opportunities—convenient holders for tiki umbrellas during our tropical-themed party.
Crap Wildlife Photography is a great equalizer.
We get married. We have sex. The world doesn’t feel different once it happens.
Snail mail and physical photos seemed nearly archaic compared to the methods I already used to keep in touch with those I missed.
Some Easters I’ve wept with emotion at the swell of “In Christ Alone” and the miracle of Christ’s sacrifice; some I’ve sat stone-faced, wondering whether any of it matters.
I feel in every moment that I need to be accomplishing something, even if that something is entertainment.
It seemed like half our kitchen had been taken up by the banana tree, bringing a bit of the tropics into snowy Wisconsin.
Putting up the tree is a boisterous event. Taking down the tree is a silent resignation to January.
Did they hear of Jesus’ ministry later and feel a twinge of familiarity, wondering, “Could that be him?”
The French Dispatch has such a high concentration of Wes Anderson per Wes Anderson that it should be considered legally toxic in the state of California.
“Um, did my…husband…put these here?”
Even though I haven’t yet tried poutine and don’t really know where Manitoba is, I’ve observed enough fun quirks about Canada and Toronto to share.
Contentment has been slowly blooming for me this summer.
To me, “roommate” means something even stronger than “friend.”
In that crowd of spotlighted onlookers I was not alone.
The line delineating old life and new life is blurry, and many aspects will never be the same.
God is supposed to be my father, but when I think of a father I think of an empty space.
Truth is relative, and there are monsters in the world that confuse what’s real and what’s good.
For me, an unemployed expat in a lockdown, having a dog means having purpose.