Deaconing
I’m stepping into church council. Humility knows no bounds. What can I reciprocate? I grovel, lying prostrate, prone.
I’m stepping into church council. Humility knows no bounds. What can I reciprocate? I grovel, lying prostrate, prone.
A fan. A spatula. Thirty soft-cover books. A pile of dresses. Yarn. A bottle of balsamic vinegar.
I scour the wall for any ledges, any possible edge to rest a hand or foot. Nothing. The drop to the next balcony I would guess is eight feet. Not impossible.
We danced on moonlight and settled scores by imagining things differently.
On Thursday, February 16, production came to a grinding halt at the greenhouse because most of my coworkers took a personal day for the nationwide protest, “A Day Without Immigrants.”
The difficult task we’ve all received is—like Vonnegut—seeking the slippery truth buried in muddiness and mess.
Nowhere else in this big wide world of ours can you find a life-size Michael Jackson and Princess Diana made entirely out of marzipan.
Fifty seconds of the wind whipping, a few tires screeching, nothing more, nothing more needed. Two days of slipping up the coast, of stinging sand, of white adobe buildings.
There’s nothing like bustling down the baking needs aisle with a week’s supply of Oreos yelling out for “Anthill!” to make you realize you’re not currently leading a traditional life.
The US eventually emerged from The Great Depression, but my grandmother did not.