We promise love between sheets and in delivery rooms and at hospital bedsides. We say “God is love” and “the greatest of these is love.” But when it comes down to it, whenever we talk about love, none of us are really saying the same thing.
The whole idea of resurrection is something of a mossy mystery—thinking about what it means for the Christian faith and, especially, what it means for how we live today.
But probably, it was simply a pure moment, where the present brushes eternity and leaves a faint aroma of godliness. I breathed in. The rain whispered, and the grass ruffled.
Poet and memoirist Mary Karr writes: “The very word incarnation derives from the Latin in carne: in meat. There is a body on the cross in my church.”
I was four or five when I ran away from home. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision stemming from my preschool sense of injustice.
But when I tell this to people, my writing hopes and dreams and thoughts, the first question they invariably ask is: “What do you write?”
Of course, that’s not to say that it was a dramatic or artistic milestone. More accurately, the show’s dramatic milieu is perhaps best described as high camp.
Your head hurts, you’re tired, you’re an insomniac, you’re a narcoleptic, you’re mute, you’re alone, deafened, crowded, screaming screaming screaming.
When I was a child, I measured myself against the tallest tree. This tree, this tallest tree, it wasn’t a redwood or a giant ash. It was a white pine.
I know the saying is that misery loves company, but in my experience I reckon misery loves an audience. There, in the center of a circle of eager listeners, I peaked.
